


Between the Lines

by Klitch



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-08
Updated: 2013-03-02
Packaged: 2017-11-28 14:20:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 21,540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/675354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Klitch/pseuds/Klitch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time Yata saw him the kid was sitting in the corner of the cafeteria all alone with his bought lunch spread out before him, painstakingly picking out the vegetables and stacking them according to color and size.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Side Yata

**Author's Note:**

> So...wrote a K Project fic. It wouldn't leave me alone. Anyway, Yata's side first (aka the happier part), Fushimi's half will be up whenever I finish editing it.

The first time Yata saw him the kid was sitting in the corner of the cafeteria all alone with his bought lunch spread out before him, painstakingly picking out the vegetables and stacking them according to color and size.

“Hey. Who’s that guy?” Yata nodded towards the kid as he leaned in closer to his current lunch partners Wakui and Moriyama. “I haven’t seen him before.”

“No idea,” drawled Wakui as he shoveled food into his mouth. “I didn’t know anyone like that was in our class.”

“That’s because you just transferred,” Moriyama said with a shrug. “But you should remember him, Yata. He’s been in our class all year.”

“He has?” Yata chewed on his food thoughtfully as he watched the weird kid continue to pick at his vegetables. _Just eat them already,_ Yata thought irritably even as he tried his best to slide his milk off his tray. 

“Fushi…Fushi-something, that’s his name,” Moriyama said. “He’s absent a lot, that’s probably why you don’t remember him. Anyway, he’s weird. He doesn’t talk to anyone and he eats alone like that all the time, playing with the vegetables. What is he, a grade schooler?”

“Right, right,” Yata laughed distractedly and pushed his milk a little farther off his tray. A few inches more and it would tip over onto Wakui’s tray and then maybe Yata could convince him that it had been his all along.

“I don’t want your milk,” muttered Wakui, pushing it right back at him. Yata made a face, glaring down at the milk. Stupid milk.

He glanced back at the weird kid, Fushi-whatever. He had finished most of his food and was now alternating between reading a book that he didn’t seem interested in and pushing the vegetable stacks around with a finger. They looked like little buildings like that, all pressed together. The leaning tower of grated radish, the cabbage skyscraper, all about to topple as soon as the kid got up the energy to actually throw the damn things away.

Speaking of which, the milk was still staring at him. Yata cursed and stood, grabbing the carton roughly in one hand.

“I”m throwing this away,” he stated, ignoring the way Wakui and Moriyama snickered behind their hands. Yata snorted and tried his best to raise his head proudly — it added an extra inch to his height when he did that anyway and damn it, he _needed_ that inch — and strode towards the trash can.

He reached the can at the same time as the weird vegetable kid, who looked up from his tray as Yata approached. Of course the kid’s eyes were drawn straight to the milk in his hand.

“It’s spoiled,” Yata stated gruffly, tossing the carton into the trash. 

“Ah…oh.” The weird kid looked a little surprised and a little bored, as if he wasn’t quite sure that Yata was talking to him. Not many people seemed to talk to him, apparently. All around the cafeteria his classmates had spread out and were eating in groups of threes and fours, all except the vegetable kid. The kid seemed to wilt slightly under Yata’s stare, as if he was waiting for some kind of reproach, averting his eyes as he began to empty the remains of his lunch and his little stacks of vegetables into the trash.

“Why did you even buy that lunch if you’re not going to eat half of it?” Yata’s mouth spoke before his brain could catch up.

“I…” The kid shifted uncomfortably, as if not sure what to say. Yata cocked his slightly and suddenly noticed that the lunch looked awfully familiar to his own bought lunch.

There was nobody home ever to make him a lunch, not like other people had. Yata didn’t want to bother getting up early to do it himself so he had to buy. There were choices, of course, but Yata always bought the same one.

Oh. That was it, then. It was the cheapest lunch.

Yata suddenly felt a little spark of kinship with the weird kid.

“What’s your name?” he asked bluntly. The kid still had his eyes averted even as he answered.

“Fushimi…Saruhiko.”

“Fushimi, huh?” Yata held out a hand. “Yata Misaki.”

“Misaki…?”

“No!” Yata said quickly. “Yata, you can call me Yata! Anyway, were you always in this class?”

“Yes.” The timidity seemed to be fading, only to be replaced by extreme boredom. Really, there was something in the kid’s face that made it seem like boredom was more of a state of being than an emotion.

“I don’t remember you,” Yata said, feeling strangely awkward all of a sudden.

“Most people don’t.” Fushimi shrugged and scraped the last sad slice of radish into the trash can. He immediately began to walk back to his corner as if Yata wasn’t even there.

“Vegetables are good for you, you know,” Yata muttered at his retreating back, annoyed at being ignored.

“Milk helps you grow.” The words were so quiet he almost didn’t hear them.

“What the hell did you just say?!” Yata said sharply.

“Hmm..?” Fushimi turned back to look at him, face blank. “Nothing.”

“Hmmph. I thought so.” Yata snorted and strode past him, back towards his own seat. As he passed he couldn’t stop himself from glancing back one more time at Fushimi, who had retreated back to his own corner as if nothing had happened, staring down at the book he never seemed to read.

—

“Spoiled again?” They were back at the trash can again, Yata with his milk and Fushimi with his stupid damn piles of vegetables.

“Eh?” It took Yata a moment and then he caught on, nodding quickly. “Um, yeah! Yeah, spoiled. Totally.”

“These were too,” Fushimi said calmly, scraping the vegetables in one by one.

“They look fine to me,” Yata challenged. Somehow the look on the other kid’s face just annoyed him.

“Everyone else’s milk is fine,” Fushimi replied, not missing a beat. Yata glared at him and Fushimi looked back down at his vegetables.

“You were out yesterday,” Yata said after a moment.

“Hm?” Fushimi looked surprised and it was strangely gratifying to see an actual expression on his face. Anyone not paying attention would likely think that Fushimi had only one default emotion: boredom. For his part, Yata was starting to think that people might do well to pay more attention to Fushimi.

“Sick?” Yata asked.

“No.” Fushimi didn’t look at him and suddenly Yata felt like a jerk for asking. They were both cheap lunch partners together, right? Yata knew his reasons why, who knew what Fushimi had going on. Their school wasn’t in the best of areas, after all. Plenty of kids transferred in only to transfer out just as quick (Wakui was already gone, having transferred out without so much as a word two days prior) or just stopped coming to school all together. Nobody asked any questions because they all knew what kind of place they were in. 

Fushimi turned to walk back to his corner and Yata suddenly grabbed his arm, face averted in slight embarrassment.

“…Sorry,” he said quietly.

“For what?” The kid was too weird. For what? Anyone would know what. 

“Nothing,” Yata said at last, annoyed. “Never mind.”

—

“You could just eat them, Fushimi,” Yata said, watching as perfectly good vegetable after vegetable fell into the garbage can.

“You could drink your milk, _Misaki._ ”

“Don’t call me that,” Yata grumbled, crossing his arms. He didn’t know why Fushimi insisted on using his first name all the time. “Anyway, that’s different.”

“How?” 

“Vegetables all taste different,” Yata stated. “You have to like some of them.”

“I don’t like these,” Fushimi said. 

“What kind _do_ you like?”

A pause.

“Not these,” Fushimi said at last.

“What the hell kind of diet do you have?” Yata asked. “You’re going to get sick.”

“You’re going to stay a midget.”

“Say that again, I dare you,” Yata warned.

“I eat plenty of food,” Fushimi said. “In the long run, vegetables aren’t really that important. There are plenty of ways to get around eating them. With dietary supplements--”

“With _what_ now?”

“Never mind,” Fushimi said with a sigh. “Isn’t milk a more essential part of a growing boy’s diet, anyway?”

“Says who?” Yata glared at the offending carton in his hand. “I’ve been growing just fine without it.”

“Define ‘just fine.’”

“Who asked you anyway?!”

“You did.”

“Shut up.” Yata turned to throw the carton in the trash and Fushimi suddenly reached down and took it from him. “Hey, what…?”

Ignoring him, Fushimi opened the carton with an air of slight annoyance, as if he was doing Yata a great favor that required large amounts of effort to complete, and in one move downed the entire thing.

“There.” He tossed the empty carton back to an open-mouthed Yata, wiping his mouth on his sleeve as he spoke. “That wasn’t so hard, was it Misaki?”

Without another word Fushimi turned and walked back to his corner, leaving Yata staring behind him.

—

“All right, give them here.”

“Hmm?” Fushimi looked up curiously from his seat as Yata leaned over him. It was lunchtime again and Fushimi was eating in his little corner by himself. Again. He had a book open in his lap and hadn’t turned the page for at least three minutes. Yata’s milk carton was sitting opened and half empty in front of him.

“I said, give them, here.” Yata repeated. “The vegetables, I mean.”

He was gratified to see Fushimi’s expression change into one of absolute bafflement.

“Well, you’ve been drinking my milk for me, right?” Yata muttered, trying to sound as if it was all no big deal. He roughly pushed his tray up next to Fushimi’s, nearly knocking the other boy’s tray into his lap, and grabbed a nearby chair, sitting in it backwards so that he could lean his arms over the back. “Give them here.”

“Oh…” Fushimi dutifully placed a small stack of green peppers onto to Yata’s plate, still looking confused.

“And you can come eat with me, you know,” Yata added. “I mean, me and Moriyama. It’s dumb to sit here in the corner all by yourself.”

“I’m fine.” The usual impenetrable wall immediately re-formed itself in Fushimi’s eyes. “I don’t need you to do me any favors, _Misaki._ ”

“Well…stay here and be weird, then!” Yata snapped, standing up abruptly, temper flaring. Fushimi had already looked away from him, staring back down at his book. There was something wavering behind his eyes that made Yata’s anger deflate like a popped balloon. 

Idiot. What was there to be afraid of, from just a suggestion like that?

“I’m still eating your vegetables,” Yata declared and swept all the little stacks up in one hand, dumping them onto his tray before stomping back over to where Moriyama was staring at him as if he’d grown a third head. “You hear that, idiot monkey? I’m eating your vegetables every day, how do you like that?”

Fushimi ignored him and continued to stare at his book, but this time Yata thought there might have been the slightest of smiles on his face.

—

It was raining and Yata had forgotten his umbrella.

Well, that wasn’t quite true. He hadn’t really had time to _forget_ the umbrella, he just didn’t have one. The sky had been mostly clear after school, the slightest of clouds only just beginning to form as he walked home. He’d gotten inside the building before the sky had turned completely gray and he’d been walking up the stairwell when he’d heard the first distant rumble of thunder.

As he dug his keys out of his school satchel and reached for the door of his apartment he was suddenly aware of the sounds of voices from within. Yata’s heart dropped as he pressed a hand against the door. Unlocked. A familiar gruff voice floated in from inside.

So the old man was finally home. It had been at least three weeks this time.

An unfamiliar voice answered and Yata sighed, letting the door swing closed. If there was someone he didn’t know in there it meant his dad had a ‘client,’ and Yata knew well enough that anytime that happened it meant he should make himself scarce.

Stupid old man. Yata kicked the wall as he strode down the hallway back towards the stairs. He didn’t know what his dad did for a living and he didn’t want to know. It wasn’t like it mattered anyway. Going off all the time, for days and weeks and leaving Yata by himself in the dingy apartment, wondering if the old man would remember to at least send some money for the rent this time. Wondering how long it would be until the day he didn’t come home for good and Yata was all by himself, scrambling for a place to live and food to eat.

He exited the building just as the rain began to pour down and Yata cursed again. His umbrella was inside the apartment and damned if he was going back in there right now. He stood awkwardly in the doorway for a moment and then finally ran out into the rain, cursing his own stupidity. What was he, a little kid? He didn’t need a stupid umbrella. He’d walk to the game center in the rain, that would show the old man. He slowed down into an angry stomping walk. That was right, he’d walk in the rain. He wasn’t a little kid, afraid of a simple rain shower. He was fine like this. 

He was so busy focusing on slowing his feet that he almost didn’t notice the figure huddling under a nearby overhang until he nearly ran into him.

“Watch where you’re walking.”

“Ah, sorry, sorry — wait, Fushimi?” Yata’s surprised face was met by a pair of bored blue eyes peeking out from under drenched bangs. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for the rain to stop.” He said it in tones that suggested even an idiot should be able to tell that. 

“What were you doing at a--” Yata paused and glanced at the shop behind them. “A _flower_ shop?”

“Making a delivery.” There was the slightest hint of defensiveness in the statement.

“ _You_ were delivering _flowers_?” The entire idea of it made Yata laugh. Fushimi glared icily at him.

“They were paying me, _Misaki._ ” He took a slow step to the right away from Yata’s shoulder, eying him with distaste. “You’re soaked.”

“I forgot my umbrella.” It was partially true, anyway.

“Tch. Me too.” Fushimi looked away from him again, back up at the sky. 

“So…do you want to come to the game center with me?” Yata wasn’t sure why he said it. There was just something in Fushimi’s expression, something lost and cold like a hazy mist in a rainstorm that made him speak.

“It’s raining.” Fushimi arched an eyebrow at him.

“I can see that,” Yata huffed. “It’s not far. We can run.”

“I’ll catch a cold.” Fushimi shrugged.

“We could catch a cold, and who cares?”

“You won’t.” The implication was clear and Yata glared at him.

“Fine. Stay here and deliver flowers, then.” Yata turned to go.

He was stopped by a hand on his arm. Yata whirled, surprised.

Judging from Fushimi’s expression, the only one more surprised by the action than Yata was Fushimi himself, who was staring at his arm as if it belonged to someone else. He immediately pulled his hand back as if burned and looked away quickly without a word, making that stupid ‘tch’ sound with his tongue like he always seemed to do. 

“Come on, let’s go.” Yata grabbed Fushimi’s hand and dragged him forward into the rain. “Race you, okay?”

“You’re an idiot,” Fushimi muttered but did not pull away.

“And you’re a jerk,” Yata answered with a shrug. “Shut up and let’s go, we’re gonna get soaked.”

They ran all the way to the game center and collapsed in the doorway, red-cheeked and wet-haired and laughing as the people around them stared, and somehow Yata found that he didn’t even care that he didn’t have an umbrella.

—

“It’s a _stuffed green pepper._ ” Yata sat across the table from Fushimi, watching in strange fascination as the other boy doggedly dug the insides out of his lunch. He wasn’t really sure when they’d started eating together every lunch period. Moriyama had stopped coming to school and Yata had found himself gravitating to Fushimi’s previously lonely corner of the cafeteria. The atmosphere wasn’t as lively as it had been with his previous lunch partners, but there was still something comfortable about it when it was just the two of them.

“I know that.” Fushimi didn’t even look up.

“The whole point is that it’s a vegetable.”

“I don’t like green peppers.”

“But it’s a _stuffed_ green pepper,” Yata said, as if it would matter.

“So I’ll eat the stuffed part.”

“I’ll give you a hundred yen if you eat the green pepper.” There was something Yata found mesmerizing about the way Fushimi, a person who normally avoided doing anything requiring effort at all, could be so determined to eat a lunch that was entirely devoid of vegetables. Fushimi paused momentarily in his scraping.

“You don’t have a hundred yen.”

“When I get it, I’ll give it to you,” Yata said. “Come on, just try it. Why even get it, if you’re not going to eat the green pepper part?”

“You get milk every day.”

“Only because that’s all the cafeteria has.”

“All right.” Fushimi slid the milk carton towards Yata. “Drink that, and I’ll try the green pepper.”

“Wait, that’s playing dirty!” Yata objected. 

“It’s not hard.” Fushimi held up the carton and dangled it in front of Yata’s face. “It’s good for you. It’ll help you grow, _Misaki._ ”

“And how many times do I have to tell you to stop using my first name!”

“I’ll stop calling you Misaki if you drink your milk like a good boy,” Fushimi said.

“Stupid bastard.” Yata leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Fine. I’ll drink the milk. But you eat the vegetables first.”

“Drink first. How else can I trust you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean? I’m way more trustworthy than you!”

“Then drink.”

“After you.”

“At the same time, then.” Fushimi lifted a bite of pepper to his mouth as he stared at Yata out of the corner of his eye.

“Okay, on three.” Yata shuddered as he picked up the milk, staring at it as if it would bite him. “One, two…three!” He closed his eyes and took a gulp.

The milk barely touched his tongue before he spit it back out again, hacking dramatically.

“I can’t do it,” Yata coughed. “It’s…no. I refuse!”

He gave another pathetic wheeze and glanced up at Fushimi, who was watching him with thinly-veiled amusement, green pepper utterly untouched beside him.

“You…” Yata glared at him and Fushimi shrugged.

“You really are simple-minded, aren’t you?”

“I hate you, Saruhiko.”

—

“I hate these stupid tests.” Yata threw his paper to the ground. Saruhiko, sitting on the roof beside him, gave him a look of mild disinterest before resuming his prior activity of moving vegetables from his tray to Yata’s. It had grown colder out but even so it felt nice to sit up here, just the two of them. “Who needs to know stuff like math anyway? It’s not going to get us out of this crappy place any faster.”

Saruhiko gave a noncommittal shrug as he took a bite of his lunch.

“What about you?” Yata eyed him suspiciously. “Hey. Saruhiko. What kind of grades do you have, anyway?”

“Why does it matter?” Saruhiko replied.

“Why don’t you want to tell me?” Yata gave a vicious smile. “It’s worse than mine, isn’t it? You keep saying ‘simple-minded’ this and ‘single-cell’ that, but I bet you’re worse than me!”

“It’s just a test.” Saruhiko shrugged again. Yata stared at him for a moment and then pounced.

“W-what are you--” Saruhiko squawked indignantly. “Misaki, you dolt, what--”

“A-ha!” Yata stood back, triumphantly brandishing his captured treasure — Saruhiko’s math test. “Now, let’s see…”

“You’re an idiot, you know that,” Saruhiko muttered, readjusting his glasses irritably. His face was flushed.

_“I’m_ the idiot?” Yata said with a smirk. _“Me?”_

“Yes, I think we’ve established that,” Saruhiko said with exaggerated patience.

“Oh yeah? Well, what about _this_?” Yata pushed the test into Saruhiko’s face. “What is this, huh? It looks like _twenty points less_ than mine. So, who’s the idiot now?” Saruhiko ignored him pointedly and Yata continued, flipping through the test proudly. Finally, he’d gotten Saruhiko! There was no way for the bastard to get around this: hard, cold numbers! Proof of Yata’s superiority, in black and white!

“It even says to see the teacher after school,” Yata snickered, flipping through another page. “You know, Saruhiko, if you need a tutor I could—wait.” He stopped at the last page.

The final question had been a hard one. The teacher had made it multiple choice, but even then Yata had found it way above his head and had spent more time trying to figure out which letter seemed more appealing than attempting to calculate out the actual answer. In the end it hadn’t mattered — as he’d handed out the tests, the teacher had announced that the final question hadn’t counted because the book had the answer wrong and none of the given answers had been correct anyway.

While the rest of Saruhiko’s test had been barely filled out, this question was filled with scribbled calculations that Yata couldn’t even begin to follow, including a circled answer and a curt note pointing out that none of the supplied answers made any sense and perhaps the teacher should do the questions himself rather than blindly copying from the book.

“Saru…” Yata muttered through gritted teeth.

“Hmm?” Saruhiko raised a bored eyebrow. “That?” He shrugged. “The rest was boring.”

“Hey.” Yata glared darkly at him. “You’re some kind of weird genius, aren’t you?”

“Eat your vegetables, Misaki.”

\-- 

It was raining again and it seemed as if class had been going on for hours, and Yata was passing the time by watching Saruhiko out of the corner of his eye.

He really didn’t understand Saruhiko at all. The guy was apparently a damn genius and yet he was somehow doing worse in school than Yata because he just didn’t _care._ Yata had tried to pry it out of him a few times, as they sat on the roof during lunch (it was cold and getting colder, but Yata liked the roof and though Saruhiko always complained, he never refused) while they went over the day’s homework and Saruhiko tried to explain it in a way that made sense.

“It’s boring,” was the answer he always received, with the same apathetic shrug every time. Sometimes it seemed like Saruhiko thought everything was boring.

Yata wondered if Saruhiko thought _he_ was boring.

“…ta-kun. Yata-kun!” The teacher’s sharp voice shocked him out of his thoughts and Yata sat up stiffly.

“Y-yes,” he stuttered out. Some of the other students snickered behind their hands. Saruhiko didn’t even look up.

“Since you’ve been paying so much attention, Yata-kun, why don’t you come up here and answer this question for us?” the teacher said coolly.

“Uh…right.” Yata stood up miserably from his desk. The numbers on the board in front of him seemed to be moving in a mocking dance, taunting him for his own stupidity. Behind him the rest of the class was laughing again and Yata felt his hands clench into fists.

There was the sound of someone else standing up and Yata didn’t even realize who it was until Saruhiko walked calmly past him, placing a hand on Yata’s shoulder and gently pushing him back down into his seat as he went by before continuing on to stand in front of the board.

As Yata stared open-mouthed, Saruhiko proceeded to not only answer the question in front of him, complete with detailed if curt explanation and shown work, he also finished off the two remaining problems on their worksheet. Once finished he clicked his tongue and walked back to his seat as if nothing had ever happened.

“Eh…” The look on the teacher’s face suggested that he had possibly just seen a unicorn. “Th-thank you, Fushimi-kun. Now, um, on to the next problem…”

The teacher turned back to the board, having utterly forgotten Yata’s presence entirely. Yata risked a glance back towards Saruhiko, who had gone back to studiously ignoring everything. Saruhiko’s eyes darted briefly to meet his and Yata gave him a wide smile. Saruhiko made a quiet ‘tch’ noise and looked away, but Yata had seen the brief spark in his friend’s eyes.

Three weeks later Yata stood dutifully outside of the classroom, awaiting punishment for a fight he’d started on the steps earlier that morning (it wasn’t his fault, the guy had been saying crap about Saruhiko and it wasn’t like Yata could just sit by and let _that_ go unpunished). From his spot by the door he could hear the math teacher talking with another faculty member in hushed, reverent tones.

The tale of The Time the Class’s Resident Lazy Genius Actually Did Something was apparently fated to endure for the rest of the school year.

—

“Good to see you again, man!” Yata waved to Kamamoto as the older boy turned to go. He would be running late now, but Yata didn’t quite mind. It was nice to see old friends again, with the way people seemed to disappear all the time around him. Half his class from his elementary school years had already moved, transferred or stopped coming to class entirely.

Saruhiko had been coming to class more often, but Yata didn’t really think much about that.

Giving Kamamoto a last wave, Yata turned to continue his walk to school only to nearly run over Saruhiko, who had silently and swiftly appeared directly behind him.

“Who was that, Misaki?” Fushimi’s voice was as calm as always, but Yata thought there was an edge to it.

“Huh? Oh, Kamamoto.” Yata shrugged. “I used to hang out with him all the time in elementary school, he’s a year ahead of us. There were some jerks who were always picking on him until I taught them a lesson.” Yata smiled proudly. 

“You’re going to be late for school,” Saruhiko said shortly, grabbing his arm. “Come on.”

“Why are you in such a bad mood?” Yata asked, pulling his arm away irritably. 

“This is my usual mood, _Misaki_ ,” Saruhiko said pointedly.

“You know, Kamamoto always called me ‘Yata- _san,_ ” Yata grumbled. “I keep telling you to stop using that name.”

Saruhiko said something in answer but his voice was so quiet Yata couldn’t even understand the words at all.

“Huh? What’d you say?”

“I said, you’re an idiot and need to walk faster,” Saruhiko said tersely. “You’re going to get in trouble again for being late.”

“So are you,” Yata said. He paused suddenly. “Wait, why are you even here anyway? Shouldn’t you be at school already?”

“You were taking too long to get there.”

“How do you even know where I live?” Yata wondered. Saruhiko shrugged and didn’t answer, expression looking stormier by the moment. “Seriously, Saruhiko, what’s your problem? You’re usually not this grumpy.”

“I’m not grumpy,” Saruhiko said smoothly. “I just came to keep you out of trouble.”

“I don’t need _your_ help for that,” Yata stated. 

“I beg to differ, Misaki.”

“Stop calling me that before I beat you up, seriously.”

“I’d like to see you try.”

\--

Yata walked home with his hands in his pockets, in a foul mood. Saruhiko had skipped school for the first day in a long while and it had made Yata feel bored and twitchy all day long, as if he was missing an important part of himself. To make matters worse he’d failed two quizzes and got into another fight, resulting in a black eye for himself and broken nose for the other party.

And worst of all, his dad still wasn’t home. Normally, that would be something to be thankful for. He could do just fine without the old man there, that was for sure. But it had been well over two months now, and the rent was due in two weeks.

The old bastard was welcome to stay away as long as he liked, but Yata was going to need money soon and there was no way a punk kid like himself was going to be able to come up with that much cash in only two weeks, not without drastic action (and it wasn’t like he wasn’t considering those, but he was starting to have recurring nightmares of himself being bailed out of jail by a gloating Saruhiko and _that_ was not a desirable outcome at all).

“Hey, watch where you’re going!” Yata was jolted out of his thoughts by a rough jostling at his shoulder that nearly knocked him to the ground.

“You watch it, asshole!” Yata barked out automatically, whirling around to glare at the person who had just bumped into him. His brain took a moment to catch up to his eyes and he cursed internally.

“Well, well, if it isn’t little Misaki-chan again?” The kid who had run into him taunted. He and his two companions were all tall and sharp-faced and wearing the uniform of a nearby high school.

“You’re the one taking up the entire sidewalk, Tomino,” Yata spat. “Get the hell out of my way.”

“Shouldn’t we be telling you that?” Tomino sneered. His cronies both snickered at him behind their hands. “The elementary school’s _that_ way.”

“Don’t make me kick your ass again,” Yata growled. He was not in the mood for dealing with trash like this.

“Ooh, we’re scared, aren’t we guys?” Tomino laughed and his cronies joined in. Yata snorted at them and turned to walk away. Jerks like that weren’t even worth the time it took to beat them up.

“Where are you going, midget?” Another one of the high schoolers moved so that he was neatly blocking Yata’s path.

“I’m not in the mood to deal with this crap today,” Yata warned.

“So baby’s running home to daddy, huh?” Tomino said. “Hey, Misaki-chan, I heard you’ve been hanging out with that weird genius kid. He paying you to be his pity friend or something?”

Yata froze, his boiling anger suddenly going ice cold.

“What did you say?” he growled low.

“I remember hearing about him in middle school,” Tomino continued in a lazy drawl. “Everyone said he didn’t have any friends because he’s such a freak. He’s supposed to be so smart but he never did anything in class, so he wasn’t even worth cheating off of. Figures a brat like you would start hanging out with him. Losers get drawn to losers, right?”

“All right, bastard, you asked for it,” Yata said, glaring sharply at him. “Say one more nasty thing about Saruhiko and I’ll beat that smile off of your face.”

“You know we ran into him last year too,” Tomino continued, undaunted. “Roughed him up pretty good, didn’t we, guys? You should have seen him Misaki, crying like a little girl--”

Anything else he might have said was cut off by Yata’s fist slamming into his face. Tomino stumbled, swearing, as the other two boys immediately surrounded Yata.

“You stepped in it now, you little shit,” Tomino growled, clutching at his face. There was already a large bruise forming around his eye and Yata smirked proudly. “We’re going to make you wish you’d begged for forgiveness when you had the chance.”

They backed him into the nearest alley and Yata grit his teeth, fists clenching. Like he was going to be taken this easily.

One of the boys aimed a punch at him and Yata blocked it with one arm, trying to maneuver himself so that they couldn’t get him penned against the wall. He managed to get in a few good hits, but Tomino and his cronies were taller and heavier than he was and there were three of them to his one. In no time Yata found himself pressed against a cold brick wall, breathing hard as he tried his best to dodge the punches being thrown his way.

“Ready to apologize yet?” Tomino gloated as one of the other boys punched Yata hard in the stomach. Yata fell to his knees, the breath momentarily knocked out of him. He managed to shakily raise his head and give Tomino a fierce smile.

“Fuck you,” he hissed.

“Guess you still need to be taught a lesson, huh?” Tomino took a step closer, smiling cruelly.

“Leave him alone.” A voice from the mouth of the alley caused everyone to turn. Yata froze. He _knew_ that voice.

Saruhiko stood there, glaring coldly at the three high schoolers. It was an expression that Yata had never seen from him before and fervently hoped to never be on the receiving end of.

“Come to save your little friend, freak-boy?” Tomino turned away from Yata to give Saruhiko his full attention. Yata immediately tried to rise and was grabbed by Tomino’s two friends.

“Get out of here, Saruhiko!” Yata yelled helplessly, struggling to escape from their grip.

“I’m fine right here,” Saruhiko said evenly. He didn’t even flinch as Tomino strode up to him, even though the high schooler had at least two inches and thirty pounds on him.

“And just what were you planning on doing, freak?” Tomino taunted. He reached out and grabbed Saruhiko by the chin, forcing his face upwards. Saruhiko’s cold gaze didn’t waver. “I thought you were supposed to be smart. Remember how we handed you your ass last year?” 

“That was at school,” Saruhiko said. “This is different.”

“I don’t think it’s gonna be much--” His words were drowned out by a sharp screech as Saruhiko nonchalantly drove his knee straight into Tomino’s crotch. Tomino went down, howling in pain. “You….little…bastard!”

Yata could only stare wide-eyed as Saruhiko easily avoided Tomino’s grasp and dived into the alley, slamming into one of Yata’s captors. The high schooler fell backwards and Yata immediately sprang into action, aiming a punch straight for his remaining captor’s eye. The world was a sudden whirl of adrenaline and fists as Yata fought his way free, aware of Saruhiko at his back as the two of them made a run for the mouth of the alley.

“You little brats!” Yata heard Tomino growl and suddenly Saruhiko wasn’t behind him anymore. He turned just in time to see Tomino grab Saruhiko by the arm and slam him hard into the brick wall. Saruhiko stumbled dizzily, nearly losing his glasses, and Tomino pressed an arm against the other boy’s throat.

“Let him go, bastard!” Yata ran forward and was suddenly tackled to the ground by Tomino’s two friends.

“Shut up, you,” Tomino hissed. His voice was strained with pain. “I’ll take care of you in a minute. But first….I’m going to take care of _this_ little fucker.” He pressed his arm down on Saruhiko’s throat and the younger boy gave a strangled gasp. Yata tried to run towards him again and was roughly dragged to his feet by Tomino’s associates, arms held tight in their grasp.

“Think you’re gonna be a hero?” Tomino taunted Saruhiko, who was looking slightly blue in the face. Yata struggled wildly against the two boys holding him, desperate to get to his friend. “Gonna save your little freak friend? Too bad for you, huh. And the best thing is, nobody’s even gonna care. I could kill both of you little shits right here and no one would even notice. Just some more trash from the streets gone missing. How’s that feel, huh? Knowing no one gives a crap about whether you live or die?”

“Damn it!” Yata kicked and bit at his captors. “Saruhiko!”

Tomino’s laughter was suddenly abruptly cut off. He straightened, his movements stiff as he backed away from his victim. Saruhiko slid to the ground, coughing.

“Tomino…?” one of Yata’s captors ventured, loosing his hold just slightly. “What’s wrong?”

Tomino’s hand was pressed against his stomach as he slowly turned to face him. Yata’s eyes widened as his brain finally processed what he was seeing.

Saruhiko was crouched on the ground with a pair of blood-stained knives in one hand, and there was blood spreading on Tomino’s shirt.

“What the hell?” one of Yata’s captors swore, staring. “The little shit’s armed!”

Their grip had weakened and Yata didn’t wait around to think any further about what had just happened. With a burst of strength he broke away from his captors and ran over to where Saruhiko was still on the ground, breathing hard. Yata grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him up, barely even slowing down.

“Come on, Saruhiko!” The two of them turned and ran as fast as they could away from the alley.

Yata wasn’t sure how long they had been running before he finally became aware of the fire burning in his chest and the soreness in his whole body. Behind him he could hear Saruhiko’s wheezing breaths as the other boy stumbled along, Yata still holding tightly to his wrist. Yata skidded to a stop, breathing hard as he rested his hands on his knees, letting go of Fushimi’s wrist at last.

“Man…that was…close,” Yata panted. He risked a glance up at Saruhiko, whose head was down. “Whew. You okay, Saruhiko?”

“You should be worried about yourself.” Yata abruptly found himself pressed up against a wall for the second time in one day as Saruhiko’s hands unexpectedly pressed against his bruised face. “You hot-headed idiot.”

“Me?” Yata squawked, slapping Saruhiko’s hand away. “You’re the one who challenged them! I would’ve been fine!”

“They had you cornered in an alley,” Fushimi shot back. It occurred to Yata that this was the most emotion he’d ever seen from Saruhiko.

“I could’ve taken them,” Yata argued, crossing his arms with a slight wince. 

“And you were doing such a good job when I showed up.” Saruhiko gave him a flat look. “You’re covered in bruises.”

“I was just waiting for the right time to counterattack,” Yata muttered. He suddenly realized that he wasn’t the only one injured — a nasty-looking dark bruise was spreading over Saruhiko’s throat. “Aw, dammit, Saruhiko, what were you thinking?” He pressed a hand against the wound and Fushimi froze like a deer caught in headlights. “He almost…” Memory rushed back, of a pale-faced Saruhiko squirming under Tomino’s grip. Yata felt an uncharacteristic spike of fear. “Dammit, Saruhiko…” He rested a clenched fist against Saruhiko’s chest. “ _You_ almost…”

“It’s fine.” There was a strangled note in Saruhiko’s voice that Yata couldn’t quite place. He rested a hand awkwardly over Yata’s fist. “It’s all right, Misaki. I’m fine.”

“Yeah, but…” Yata stared down at Saruhiko’s hand and his mind suddenly registered the blood on it. His head snapped back up as he remembered the rest of what had happened. “And since when the hell do you carry _knives?_ ”

They were still in Saruhiko’s hand, covered in Tomino’s blood. 

“Since always.” He said it in such a way that implied it had never quite occurred to Saruhiko that there might be people who _didn’t_ carry knives up their sleeves.

“You never told me,” Yata said, staring down fixedly at the knives. Somehow he thought that the scene didn’t quite fit, that the Saruhiko who refused to eat his vegetables and slept through half the school day also apparently routinely walked around armed. “How come you didn’t tell me you had knives?”

“You never asked.” Saruhiko shrugged. In a single movement so quick Yata didn’t quite follow it the knives disappeared back up Saruhiko’s sleeves.

“Yeah, but… _why_ do you walk around with hidden knives?” It just seemed so weird, Yata couldn’t quite wrap his head around it.

“Protection.” Saruhiko’s voice had gone completely cold, but not the way it had been when he’d been threatening Tomino. This voice was….flat. Emotionless. _Dead._

It made Yata’s chest hurt, and he placed a hand on Saruhiko’s shoulder without really knowing why.

“Misaki…?” 

“Nothing.” Yata shook his head and managed a weak smile. “Man, we look a mess, don’t we? We should probably put some medicine on these bruises or something.” He paused, looking around. “I don’t even know where we are right now.”

“Three blocks from the school, two streets away from the game center, there’s a pharmacy on the first left,” Saruhiko said, almost without thinking. It was his usual voice: a little bit bored, a little bit annoyed, and it made Yata’s chest feel a bit lighter to hear it.

“I’d take us back to my place, but we’ll have to go back the way we came and those jerks might not have left yet,” Yata said thoughtfully. “What about your place? Where _do_ you live, anyway?”

“I don’t have any bandages,” Saruhiko said dully. 

“Well, never mind, then.” Yata grabbed his wrist again and tried not to think about the fact that any sudden movements could possibly discharge a knife or two. “You said the game center’s not far, right? We’ll stop at the pharmacy and get bandages and then just fix each other up at the game center. Come on.”

Saruhiko paused for only a moment before nodding, a slight smile on his face. They walked on together, Yata holding tightly to Saruhiko the entire time as if he was afraid that if he let go the other boy might disappear behind him without a trace.

The next day, Yata stopped on his way home and bought a baseball bat. Just in case.

\--

Yata stared down at the money neatly arranged on the rooftop.

There was snow on the ground and Saruhiko was absent again, and Yata had approximately a week and a half to scrounge up rent money. He’d given up on the idea that his dad might show up at the last moment and help him. The old man was probably lying dead in a ditch someplace or holed up in some dark bar drowning in alcohol. He probably didn’t even remember that he had a son anymore.

“Damn it.” Yata rested his arms on his knees, irritated at the universe in general. He was cold despite his coat and he wasn’t even sure why he’d come up here. It wasn’t the same, eating on the roof without Saruhiko. His milk was already taunting him with its existence.

He stared down despondently at the money again. It definitely wasn’t enough. Even if he didn’t eat anything for a month besides Saruhiko’s vegetables, it still wouldn’t be enough. Yata sighed and flopped onto his back, staring up at the cloudy sky.

Sometimes he liked to think that maybe something would happen and everything would be better. If life was more like TV, someone would have already swept in and picked him up and taken him along to somewhere warm and bright, where he didn’t have to worry about stupid things like milk and rent and fathers who never came home. It would be nice, to have a place like that, to have a person like that. He had Saruhiko, of course, but that wasn’t quite the same, because even though Saruhiko never talked about his home life Yata was certain that his friend was in the same place Yata was. 

Yata closed his eyes and let his mind wander. Life really needed to be more like TV. Then a hero could come in out of nowhere and take him along somewhere — and Saruhiko too, because of course they would go together — and there would be more to his life than a dingy apartment in the bad part of town, more than going to school and eating the cheap lunch and carrying a baseball bat just in case some of the other street punks dared to harass him.

Something warm fluttered over him and Yata’s eyes opened. Someone had laid their school jacket over him. He sat up quickly.

“Did you need a nap, Misaki?” Saruhiko was sitting next to him, idly drinking Yata’s milk.

“Saruhiko! Where the hell have you been?” It made the day seem a bit better, now that Saruhiko was here. 

“I overslept.” Saruhiko shrugged. “I would’ve been up here sooner but the counselor wanted to talk to me.” 

“The counselor? About what?” 

“High school entrance exams.”

“…Oh.” Yata mentally added ‘high school entrance exams’ to the list of things his perfect TV world would definitely not have. 

“He wanted me to try for some prestigious school somewhere.” Saruhiko took a long drink of Yata’s milk. “I don’t remember the name, I stopped listening by then.”

“You could probably get in, if you tried.” Yata wasn’t sure where the words came from. He looked down at his paltry collection of money, still lying on the rooftop. “You’re a genius, Saruhiko. You already know more stuff than I could ever learn. You could go to one of those big fancy schools with the fancy uniforms and get out of here.”

Saruhiko stared at him flatly for a moment before standing up and smacking Yata lightly on the head.

“Hey! What the hell was that for?!” Yata demanded, clutching at his head.

“Tch. Idiot.” Saruhiko crossed his arms. “What makes you think I would ever be interested in a place like that?”

Yata stared at him in confusion for a moment before a smile began to spread over his face.

“Yeah, I guess you wouldn’t.” The thought of Saruhiko in one of those places really was ridiculous, now that he thought about it. Not his Saruhiko, who couldn’t even be bothered to finish half his tests because they were too boring to be worth his trouble. “So, where will you go for school?”

“I don’t know. Wherever you go.”

“I don’t think I’ll go anywhere,” Yata admitted. “I’m probably too dumb to get into any of those schools, with the exams and all.”

“Probably,” Saruhiko agreed without missing a beat.

“Hey! You’re not supposed to agree with me!”

“But it’s the truth, _Mi-sa-ki_ ,” Saruhiko said with a smile, stretching out the syllables of Yata’s first name in the way only he could.

“Bastard,” Yata said, but he was still smiling. With a sigh he reached out to gather up his money. Saruhiko was looking at him curiously and Yata suddenly felt embarrassed for keeping things from him. “So, Saruhiko…you, um, you have side jobs sometimes, right? Like the flower delivering thing?”

“Yes.” Saruhiko looked at him curiously.

“Do you think you could…get me a job somewhere? Maybe?”

“Why?”

“Well, the thing is…” Yata laughed nervously, feeling embarrassed without knowing why. “Okay, so, well, my old man, you know, he’s kind of a loser and all and he doesn’t come home a lot. And he’s been gone for a few months now and he stopped sending rent money, and I’m kinda out on the streets if I can’t find some way to get more money than I’m making now with the little stuff I do for people around the streets.”

“You could stay with me.” From the look on his face, Saruhiko hadn’t expected the words to come out of his mouth any more than Yata had.

“Wait…really?” 

“…Sure.” Saruhiko seemed to come to some kind of agreement with himself as he nodded. “We could…share the expenses at my place. If you want to.”

“That’s perfect!” Yata wrapped an arm around Saruhiko’s shoulders. “You’re the best, man. This’ll be great. You and me, sharing a place…”

“Right.” There was a small, sincere smile on Saruhiko’s face and a slight flush to his cheeks.

“So, what kind of place to do you live, anyway?”

—

Yata followed Saruhiko down the winding streets, dragging a duffel bag stuffed with everything he owned. He stared around at the surrounding buildings curiously as they walked.

“I didn’t know you lived so close to my place,” Yata said. “You should’ve invited me over sooner, Saruhiko! You never told me you had your own place.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“Well, I thought you’d get mad,” Yata muttered. Saruhiko had always been purposely vague about his living situation and he didn’t seem to be getting any more forthcoming even after asking Yata to move in. In retrospect Yata supposed he should’ve guessed something was weird when Saruhiko just trotted out the invitation with no mention of clearing things with parents or guardians in any way.

“Here.” Saruhiko stopped in front of an old-style brick building. It was, if possible, even worse than Yata’s old place had been. The bricks were old and crumbling and half the windows were blocked with wooden beams. There was a sign dangling off its hinges in front of the double doors and the old fire escape that ran up one side of the building looked ready to collapse any moment.

“All…right.” Yata tried to keep up his enthusiasm. He stepped towards the door and Saruhiko grabbed his arm, pulling him towards the fire escape.

“Not through the front door,” Saruhiko said, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “This way.”

“Wait, why can’t we go in the door?” 

“The landlord…doesn’t exactly know I live here,” Saruhiko admitted, looking about as close to sheepish as he ever had.

“Wait, what?” Yata stared at him. “Saru! You’re—you’re a delinquent, aren’t you!”

“So are you,” Saruhiko said, irritated.

“Yeah, but that’s different,” Yata insisted. “I always thought you were…I dunno, respectable. Or something like that.”

“That’s why I say you’re an idiot,” Saruhiko said. “How exactly did you think I was affording rent on an apartment all by myself? By delivering flowers?”

“I thought maybe your parents or someone was paying for it,” Yata said. Saruhiko’s face went suddenly blank and he turned away.

“Idiot. As if I had anyone like that. Come on.” He began to climb the creaky fire escape and Yata hurried after him.

“Saruhiko!” Yata grabbed his arm. “Hey, I didn’t mean--”

“It’s fine,” Saruhiko said. “Just come on, before we’re seen. Watch your step.”

He began to lead Yata slowly up the fire escape, the ancient metal creaking with every step. Yata supposed it did add a certain spice of danger to everything, having to risk your life every time you wanted to go home. Maybe that was why Saruhiko spent so much time with him after school. No point in bothering to make the climb more often than needed.

“So how _do_ you live here without anyone noticing?” Yata wondered, trying his best not to look down.

“The landlord keeps a record of the tenants and their rent payments on his computer,” Saruhiko said. 

“So?”

“He needs to work better on his password protection.”

“Wait. You…”

“At the moment he thinks my apartment is owned by a seventy year old woman who already paid her entire year’s rent in January even though he can’t really remember if she ever gave him a check,” Saruhiko said with a nod. “But if it’s in the computer, he thinks it has to be true. He’s even more simple-minded than you are.”

“So you can do that kind of computer stuff too, huh?” Yata whistled, ignoring the slight. “You’re cool sometimes, Saruhiko.”

“I don’t need compliments from you.”

“I knew you were a geek all this time,” Yata added with a snicker.

“Better a geek than a single-cell idiot,” Saruhiko said, not slowing his steps even slightly.

At last Saruhiko stopped, right in front of a boarded-up window. He pressed on a couple of the boards and they moved aside easily, creating a small opening just big enough for a skinny middle schooler to crawl through.

“Send your stuff through first,” Saruhiko told Yata as he began to heave himself inside.

“This is kinda neat,” Yata admitted as he pushed his duffel bag through the hole. “It’s like we have a secret base.”

With only slight difficulty Yata climbed through the hole and landed with a grunt on the floor beneath. He sat up to get a good look at last at the place Saruhiko lived.

There was _stuff_ everywhere. Old newspapers, schoolbooks at least two or three years old, empty take-out boxes stacked one on top of each other. A ratty couch sat like an island in the the middle of a sea of food wrappers and there were two knives stuck into the wall inches from the top of the television. The entire place looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in months, if not years.

“You’re…” Yata could only stare. “You’re a _slob!_ ”

“Hmm?” Saruhiko had already dropped his own school things haphazardly in a corner. He looked around coolly at the trash surrounding him and shrugged. “I’ll take out the trash later. I don’t feel like it right now.”

“Do you _ever_ feel like it?” Yata gave the rest of the apartment a quick once over. The single bathroom was, mercifully, mostly clean even though Saruhiko’s towel had been tossed on the floor and clearly forgotten about. There was also a small kitchen with a couple cupboards, a microwave and a mini-fridge. Yata took a moment to dig through the contents of Saruhiko’s food stores. “Geez, Saruhiko, what do you _eat?_ There’s barely anything in here!”

“I can always get take out.” Saruhiko had picked up a book from somewhere and was flipping through it idly.

“We need to get you some real food whenever we have extra money,” Yata said. “I’m gonna do something about that crappy diet of yours for sure this time.”

“I don’t remember getting married to you,” Saruhiko said blandly and Yata stomped over to glare at him.

“Maybe you’d be less crabby if you ate better,” Yata said, pointing down dramatically at him. Saruhiko rolled over onto his back and held up his book like a shield.

“And you’d be less of a midget if you drank milk.”

“That’s a cheap shot! I can still grow, you know!” Yata crossed his arms and looked pointedly away. “So, where am I staying? I didn’t even see a bedroom…”

“Over there.” Saruhiko pointed to a lump of blankets and something that might have been a pillow all mashed up in the far corner of the main room. Off Yata’s open-mouthed look, he added, “I can buy you another blanket.”

Yata gave a groan that was half a sigh and sat down next to Saruhiko.

“So this where you’ve lived this whole time, huh? By yourself?” he said after a moment.

“That’s right.” The book masked Saruhiko’s expression and his voice was completely flat.

Yata looked back down at him, then around at the apartment. It wasn’t as nice as his old apartment had been — for certain values of ‘nice’, at any rate — but it wasn’t like he was in a position to be choosy. And anyway, this was his best friend’s place and somehow that made even the dingy apartment feel warmer and more inviting than his ever had.

Yata dug his game system out of his duffel bag and flopped down on the floor beside Saruhiko. Saruhiko looked sidelong at him over the sides of his book and Yata smiled at him. Saruhiko looked away again almost immediately, but Yata had seen that slight pleased flush in his cheeks again.

It really _was_ kinda cool, after all.

—

“Hey, Saruhiko, get up!” Yata waved at the blanketed lump in the corner as he peered out the opened hole in the boarded window. “Look at all the snow out there.”

“Mmmph,” was the reply.

“Lemme find my PDA, I bet there’s a message that school’s canceled.” Yata dragged himself over to the couch and dug around through the remains of last night’s takeout (he really had meant to take the garbage out, really, but it was more of a task than he’d expected and if Saruhiko didn’t mind, why rush?). “Even if it’s not, we should stay home anyway. I don’t wanna walk in this, it’s gotta be freezing out. What do you think, Saruhiko?”

“Mmph.” The blanketed lump rolled over and turned pointedly away from him, as much as a pile of blankets could do anything pointedly. Saruhiko seemed to taken advantage of Yata’s absence beside him to absorb the spare blanket as well.

“We could probably get out to the game center,” Yata continued. “Or see if someone needs a walk shoveled or something, I bet we could get some cash that way.”

The blankets didn’t respond and finally Yata sighed and made his way back over to give his friend a good shake.

“Hey, Saruhiko!”

A pillow flew in his general direction with knife-like accuracy and Yata had to scramble back to avoid it. 

“What the hell was that for? Come on, get up already!” Yata grabbed Saruhiko by the shoulder and to his surprise was roughly smacked away.

“Go ‘way.” Saruhiko gave him a bleary-eyed glare before disappearing back under the blankets.

“Are you gonna sleep all day?” Yata demanded, rubbing irritably at the spot where Saruhiko had hit him. Saruhiko gave a muffled grunt in reply and in exasperation Yata grabbed at the blankets, trying to extricate Saruhiko bodily out from under them. Saruhiko gave an indignant growl and immediately fought back.

An arm jabbed weakly into his stomach and Yata suddenly found himself lying on top of a very red-cheeked Saruhiko, their faces inches apart.

Yata opened his mouth to say something and then suddenly realized that there was a strangely glazed look to Saruhiko’s eyes and that his face was flushed from more than just exertion.

“Saruhiko…?” Yata pressed a hand against Saruhiko’s forehead and was weakly slapped away again as Saruhiko tried to gather up his blankets. “Hey, you’re burning up!”

“I noticed,” Saruhiko grumbled thickly as he began to cocoon himself back beneath the thick blankets. “All your yelling is giving me a headache.”

“I wasn’t yelling!” Yata insisted. “And I wouldn’t have _had_ to yell if you’d just _told_ me you weren’t feeling well!”

“It’s nothing,” Saruhiko muttered. “Just a cold. I’ll be better tomorrow, as long as you go away and let me sleep.”

“But you feel really hot,” Yata said, clambering back up next to him. “Shouldn’t we find a doctor? Hey, should I call the hospital?”

Saruhiko gave him a look that was more frigid than someone with sweat-soaked hair sticking to his forehead should have been able to manage. 

“It’ll be fine. Just shut up for once and let me sleep.”

Yata leaned back on his hands and bit his lip thoughtfully as Saruhiko closed his eyes and curled back up into a blanketed ball. He seemed to fall asleep within moments and Yata found himself staring down curiously at Saruhiko’s sleeping face.

He didn’t look well and Yata didn’t like it at all. He looked peaceful, though, curled up on his side with his hands clenched into fists around the blankets like a little kid. With his glasses off he looked almost…vulnerable, somehow. Yata supposed that anyone who didn’t know Saruhiko who saw him like this would probably think that he was a sweet kid. The thought made Yata laugh quietly. Saruhiko was lots of things, but definitely not sweet.

Yata sighed and glanced back out the crack in the window. Well, even if there was school today he definitely wasn’t going anywhere. He knew how much it sucked to be home sick with no one to take care of you. As Saruhiko’s best (only) friend, it was Yata’s _job_ to keep an eye on him and make sure he didn’t die of a winter cold or anything like that.

Yata’s stomach growled and at last he got to his feet. They didn’t have much in the way of groceries and Saruhiko was notoriously picky, but Yata was pretty certain that he could find _something_ to make Saruhiko for when the other boy woke up.

It was a few hours later when Saruhiko finally emerged from his cocoon of blankets. His color seemed a little better but he barely seemed to have the energy to drag himself to his feet and was noticeably unsteady.

“Saruhiko!” Yata immediately looked up from where he’d been playing with his game system on the ratty old couch. “Are you feeling better? You’re not gonna die, right?”

Saruhiko fumbled for his glasses for a moment as he stared at Yata as if trying to remember who he was.

“Misaki…?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m here.” Yata vaulted over the back of the couch and hurried to Saruhiko’s side, nearly falling over a pile of newspapers as he went. “Do you need anything? More blankets? Juice? I can get juice. Oh! And I made something to settle your stomach, hold on, I’ll go get it.”

“You don’t…have to be my nursemaid,” Saruhiko said irritably, leaning heavily against the wall and apparently doing his level best to be the usual Saruhiko despite the obvious redness of his face and the hitches in his breathing. Yata ignored him and made his way back to the kitchen, grabbing the food he’d set aside for Saruhiko and heating it up in the microwave for a moment before returning to present it proudly to his friend. Saruhiko gave him a withering look. “You made that?”

“Yup,” Yata said proudly. “Didn’t know I was a great cook, did you? Unlike some people, I can do more than use a microwave on a frozen dinner.”

“It looks like something died in it,” Saruhiko said bluntly.

“It doesn’t matter how it looks,” Yata argued. “It’s taste that’s important, taste! And anyway it’s good for you!”

Saruhiko’s eyes narrowed suspiciously and Yata had the sinking feeling that he’d just said something taboo.

“Are there vegetables in there?”

“There _should_ be, but there aren’t because we don’t _have_ any. _Someone_ throws them out all the time like a pouting little kid.”

“You’re the last person to be calling someone else ‘little.’” Saruhiko seemed to sway for a moment and then he abruptly sat down, head in his hands. Yata immediately set down the food and crouched down beside him.

“Saruhiko! What happened, did you faint? Are you okay? Hey, Saruhiko…” He nervously shook Saruhiko by the shoulders and was pushed away.

“You’re noisy,” Saruhiko muttered in a faint voice as he dragged himself to his feet, half-stumbling, half-crawling towards his abandoned bed. “Useless and…stupid and annoying…” He shook his head and suddenly his legs didn’t seem to want to hold him anymore and he fell into a heap. In a flash Yata was at his side again.

“Hey, Saruhiko. Saruhiko.” Yata shook his friend nervously and felt something inside him clench when he got no response. “Hey, Saru! Come on, you’re freaking me out. Saruhiko!”

“…Noisy…” Saruhiko muttered vaguely, eyes fluttering. He stared up blearily into Yata’s worried eyes. “Misaki…what…?”

“You…fainted, or something,” Yata told him, ignoring the strained tone of his own voice. “Um…maybe I should get you back to bed?”

“Yes, that’s probably…” Saruhiko tried to stand, winced and fell back onto the floor. He was shaking slightly.

“Here, I’ll help.” Yata reached over to take his arm and was ignored.

“I can do it.” Saruhiko forced himself up onto his arms and then to his feet. He swayed dangerously for a moment before Yata ran to his side, taking him by the shoulder and steering him towards the makeshift bed. “I said, I can do it. I don’t need you to…”

“Who’s the idiot this time, huh?” Yata said gruffly, not moving. “You shouldn’t have gotten up in the first place.”

Saruhiko looked up at him in surprise for a moment before managing a shaky smile.

“Probably not.” He sighed heavily and let Yata half-carry him back to the bed. 

“You sure I shouldn’t call…somebody, or something?” Yata asked nervously as Saruhiko lowered himself back down into the blankets. 

“It’ll be fine.” Saruhiko’s voice was oddly calm. “I just need to rest.”

“I could go down the store and buy some medicine, I think we’ve still got some cash left after last night’s dinner.”

“No, it’s fine.” One of Saruhiko’s hands reached out weakly to grab onto the end of Yata’s shirt. “Just stay here, Misaki. With me.”

“A-all right.” Yata was taken momentarily aback. It wasn’t like Saruhiko to say something like that so straightforwardly, and looking down at him Yata felt a sudden rush of affection for his friend. “All right, Saruhiko. Don’t worry. I’m here. I’ll stay here, okay? So get some sleep.”

—

“What are you doing?” Saruhiko grabbed his arm as Yata rose to his feet.

“What does it look like? Let’s go after them.” Yata glanced from Saruhiko’s worried face to where the red-haired man and his friends were disappearing into the crowd.

“Are you crazy?” Saruhiko seemed worried and maybe a little angry, and Yata wasn’t sure why. Hadn’t he just seen what the same thing Yata had? The thing that guy had done…. It was like he had some kind of magic power. And he’d even had a bunch of guys with him, following him close like he was some kind of king and they were all his subjects. 

Yata’s heart was pounding with an excitement he couldn’t quite name. He wasn’t really sure what had just happened, but he knew that it was something big. Something big had finally happened to them. Something like in those stories he’d long ago dismissed as impossible.

“Come on, we’ll lose them.” Yata was already going after them when Saruhiko pulled him back again. “Aaah, Saru, what’s your problem? They’re getting away!”

“Good,” Saruhiko said flatly. His eyes were flashing irritably behind his glasses. “Don’t be such an idiot, Misaki. We don’t even know who those guys are or what they want with us. What if--”

“Didn’t you see what that guy _did?_ ” Yata argued. “We can’t just let something like this go by. They _invited_ us to come along. How often does something like that happen? Let’s at least go see what they were talking about.”

“Tch.” Saruhiko always made that noise when he was annoyed but not willing to say why. Yata gave an irritated groan and slipped out of Saruhiko’s grasp.

“I’m going,” he announced. “If you’re so scared, just stay here alone.”

He regretted the words almost as soon as he said them. Something dark flashed through Saruhiko’s eyes as he looked away. His face seemed paler than normal.

“Come on.” Yata reached out then and grabbed Saruhiko’s wrist, pulling him forward. Saruhiko didn’t resist this time, and soon he was following along behind Yata without being pulled.

After a moment Yata spotted the red-haired man in the crowd and ran forward after him. As he got closer, he stopped only once to turn back and be sure Saruhiko was still following.

Whatever had just happened, whoever these people were, whatever that power had been, he knew that it was something big. Something that he’d been waiting for. And if it was something like that, he had to be sure Saruhiko came along too. 

Yata had been waiting all this time to be saved, and he wasn’t going to let it happen without Saruhiko by his side. They were together. It felt like they had always been together.

They would be saved together. He was sure of it.


	2. Side Fushimi

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> People didn't like Fushimi Saruhiko.

People didn’t like Fushimi Saruhiko.

It was something he had always known and it had never bothered him much. It was like a simple fact of the universe: the sky was blue, the sun was warm, people didn’t like him. It was just the way things were and would always be.

His parents didn’t like him, or so he assumed. He’d never actually met them but Fushimi imagined they must not have liked him much since they’d dropped him off at a relative’s house when he’d been very young and he’d never heard so much as a word from them forever after.

His relatives didn’t like him either. They always tried, at first. When he’d been small it had been easier for them, because it was a simple thing to smile and talk kindly to a little abandoned child with messy hair and wide eyes that stared up owlishly behind thick-framed glasses. It became less easy once they brought him inside, when he proved to be gloomy and standoffish and wouldn’t play the games normal children did or be amused by the things normal children would, when he would simply sit and quietly stare at them. “It’s creepy,” he’d overheard an aunt say once, when he’d been about five or so. “I can’t take it when that child looks at me that way.” Like everyone else, the relatives he stayed with would eventually stop even pretending to like him and he’d find himself sent away again. There would be another aunt, another grandparent, another distant cousin, and then eventually there was only himself and an empty apartment (there had even been rent, until there wasn’t -- a great-uncle balancing the finances and wondering what that little notch in the budget was or a cousin taking stock of a deceased grandparent’s assets and being completely confounded by that little payment to a run-down apartment complex and then shrugging and stopping payments without another thought, and no one remembered the little boy with the thick glasses and the creepy stare).

His teachers didn’t like him. He found them boring and their lessons boring, and his grades were never anything much to speak of. His teachers would always eventually realize that he was smart and then for a brief shining moment he would be the golden student, the prize genius of the classroom, until they realized he was _too_ smart and would like him even less than they had before. Fushimi didn’t see how any of that was his fault, but it was just as well. The lessons were always too easily understood and therefore not worth his time, the same as everything else. Any problem he could solve inevitably became boring in the answering and not even worth lifting a pencil for.

His fellow students _definitely_ didn’t like him and the feeling was mutual. Fushimi had tried to befriend them, of course, when he was younger and didn’t realize that he wasn’t made to be liked. He’d joined in games with the other children but they’d all been so boring he’d never been able to keep up any interest in them for very long. He couldn’t help it. The other children didn’t understand him and he understood them both too well and not at all. By the end of elementary school Fushimi had already been branded an outcast. 

Fushimi might have cared about that at first but by middle school it had all become simply something that was. He ate his meals alone, walked to and from school alone, never stayed late for clubs or teacher conferences or even school festivals, and every day passed more boring than the next. Everything was gray and dull and uneventful and at some point Fushimi simply accepted that this was the way the world would always be for him. Gray and flat and alone. Something that might have hurt once but had long since ceased to do so. 

And then one day an idiot named Yata Misaki talked to him about vegetables over a trash can at lunch.

—

Fushimi had never paid attention to who was in his class in any given year. He supposed some of them must have been in class with him before and might have known his name or at least his face, but he never bothered to memorize any of theirs. They would all be going their separate ways eventually and none of them would ever so much as think of him again, so why bother to expend any effort on them? 

Fushimi always ate alone in the corner of the cafeteria. Sometimes he brought a book, though there really weren’t many books he liked. It just gave him something else to focus on while he ate. Lunch itself was always the same too: whatever was cheapest on any given day. He kept himself fed and clothed by doing odd jobs on days he didn’t feel like going to school (there was no one to force him to go, after all, and no one at school to care whether he was there or not) and though he did have some food at home he could never quite manage to get up the energy to pack his own lunch in the morning.

The problem with buying, of course, was the vegetables. Every single meal, without fail, there were vegetables. Fushimi wrinkled his nose as he slowly began to pick them out of his food, idly stacking them by color and size. Lunch period always seemed to go on forever but this helped to make the time go just a bit faster. Fushimi never understood why all his classmates got so excited at lunch time. There was nothing to do but eat dry tasteless school food and talk about boring, trivial things. It was worse than class.

The vegetables were bothering him now, so he finally stood and went to throw them away. He reached the trash can at the same time as another student, a short red-haired kid with a carton of milk clenched in his hand so tightly Fushimi wondered idly if it had offended him in some way. 

“It’s spoiled.” The other boy had apparently noticed Fushimi’s staring.

“Ah…oh.” He hadn’t really expected to be talked to and Fushimi wasn’t even certain how to respond. He didn’t really care, in any case. It wasn’t any business of his if the midget didn’t want to drink milk, and it wasn’t like the kid had to justify himself to Fushimi, of all people.

The other boy was staring at Fushimi’s stacks of vegetables now and Fushimi looked away from him. He hoped the red head would take the hint and leave, quickly. It was awkward, standing there, and even the thought of starting up a further conversation made Fushimi feel a little ill. No one talked to him, ever. It was the way things were. He didn’t like it when people disrupted the way things were, because then it made him _think_ and Fushimi had found that sometimes when he started to think, to _really_ think, it made his entire chest feel like it was on fire.

“Why did you even buy it if you’re not going to eat half of it?”

“I…” Fushimi shifted uncomfortably. An empty apartment flashed through his mind and he felt something inside him clench in the way it did when he thought too hard.

“What’s your name?” the red-haired boy blurted out.

“Fushimi…Saruhiko.” Why ask his name? It wasn’t like it would ever matter. Fushimi didn’t even know why he answered.

“Fushimi, huh?” The other kid held out a hand as if he expected Fushimi to take it or something, which was just ridiculously stupid. “Yata Misaki.”

“Misaki…?” It sounded like a girl’s name and Fushimi wondered if he had misheard.

“No!” Yata said quickly, as if embarrassed. Fushimi decided at that point that the other boy was certainly an idiot of the highest caliber and there was not much point in engaging him further. “Yata, you can call me Yata! Anyway, were you always in this class?”

“Yes.” This was familiar, now. He began to toss the last few vegetables in the trash can, in the hopes of ending the conversation quicker.

“I don’t remember you.”

“Most people don’t.” Fushimi shrugged. That was the way he liked it, after all. He turned to go back to his seat without another word, trusting Yata to take the hint and do the same.

“Vegetables are good for you, you know.” The voice was muttered and barely heard, and Fushimi made an small annoyed ‘tch’ sound with his tongue.

“Milk helps you grow,” he replied without even looking back.

“What the hell did you just say?!” Yata yelped behind him. Fushimi had the sudden uncharacteristic desire to see his annoyed face and so he turned back to look.

“Nothing.”

“Hmmph. I thought so.” Yata raised his head and snorted as if he’d somehow succeeded in accomplishing anything at all as he strode past Fushimi towards where he had been eating. Fushimi didn’t even bother to watch him go, making his way to his usual solitary corner.

Somehow, lunch period seemed shorter than usual that day and he wasn’t really sure why.

—

Fushimi assumed that the encounter with Yata Misaki during lunch would be both the first and last time he spoke with the other boy. After all, he was a disliked person. It was a law of the universe. People didn’t talk to him, he didn’t talk to them, and the world turned on as normal.

Therefore he was more surprised than anyone when the next day and the day after and the day after that, Yata continued to talk to him. In that time, Fushimi came to several conclusions.

The first: Yata Misaki was a hot-headed moron. He got irritated easily, didn’t like people to use his given name, and refused to drink milk. Judging from the occasional bruises on his face, he likely got into fights a lot. He ate the same cheap lunch as Fushimi.

The second, and this was the one that Fushimi simply couldn’t understand: Yata Misaki didn’t seem to dislike talking to him at all. He would _act_ like it sometimes, of course, sharply answering Fushimi’s dry remarks about the relationship between his height (or lack thereof) and his refusal to drink milk, would snap and lose his temper and complain and shoot comments back, but then he would be right back at the trash can the next day, talking to Fushimi as if nothing had happened.

The third, and the one that worried him the most: Fushimi was possibly actually beginning to _enjoy_ talking to Yata every day. He was almost looking forward to the conversations by the trash can.This was, of course, unacceptable. It was only inevitable that eventually Yata Misaki would prove to be as boring as everyone else and then they wouldn’t be able to talk anymore and he might actually _miss_ it. 

The thought was intolerable, so Fushimi did what he decided was the only sensible thing: he started to drink Yata’s milk. After getting his lunch he would swing by Yata’s table, take the milk carton with barely a word, and go back to his usual corner. There was no more need for conversations at the trash can and his world went right back to the safe gray place it had always been.

Then Misaki sat across from him and demanded to eat the vegetables from Fushimi’s lunch, and Fushimi found himself forced to come to a fourth conclusion that he had not expected at all.

He _liked_ Yata Misaki.

—

“Let’s go onto the roof.” 

“Hmm?” Fushimi looked up at Misaki uncomprehendingly. They had been eating lunch together for nearly a month now. He had no idea what had happened to Misaki’s usual lunch partners and honestly didn’t really care. 

Misaki was staring down at him with his ridiculous moron grin, his eyes alight with the usual thoughtless enthusiasm. Fushimi didn’t even know how it was possible for someone to function with so little brain activity at any given time.

“The roof, the roof!” Misaki said, as if Fushimi had somehow failed to hear him.

“It’s cold out,” Fushimi pointed out. It was nearly winter. Only a pair of idiots would go eat lunch on the roof on a day like this.

“I know,” Misaki said, sitting down beside him. “But it’s too…I dunno, _stuffy_ in here today. And besides, I bet that means no one else will be there. We’ll have it all to ourselves, it’ll be great!”

Fushimi could think of several adjectives for what eating on the roof on a cold day could be, and none of them were kind. He didn’t really see what the difference was between the cafeteria and the roof except that one of them was colder.

And Misaki was going to eat on the roof, so one would have Misaki.

“All right, all right.” Fushimi sighed. He didn’t really know why he was giving in, but Misaki’s smile made the whole idea suddenly seem more interesting than it had been before.

And when they both fell asleep in a patch of sun with their backs leaning against each other, oblivious to the cold and the class they were missing, Fushimi had to admit that perhaps, for once, Misaki had been correct about something.

—

“It’s not hard.” They were on the roof again, with the day’s math homework spread out before them. The wind was strong that day, so they’d anchored the papers down with Yata’s milk and Fushimi’s vegetables. Fushimi was trying for what had to be the tenth time in one week to explain how math worked. 

“Yes it is,” Misaki replied, irritated. “All these stupid….numbers, and shit. Like this one,” He jabbed a finger at one offending problem. “How the hell is anyone supposed to know the answer to _that?_ I mean, what the hell is that stupid symbol thingy supposed to meany anyway?”

“21.5,” Fushimi said with barely a glance at the problem.

“How do you _do_ that?” Misaki demanded. “Seriously, Saruhiko…what’s your secret? How do you know this stuff?”

“Just a simple application of rocket science,” Fushimi replied calmly.

“Huh?” Yata stared at him as if he’d just said aliens were feeding the answers straight to his brain. “Wait, really? Is that what we’re learning?”

“I’m kidding, you simple-minded idiot,” Fushimi said. Really, he didn’t understand how someone could be such a complete moron about so many things. It never failed to be amusing.

“I knew that,” Yata muttered, looking away. “And who are you calling simple-minded?”

“The person who still can’t get better than a 60 on any given test.”

“Says the guy who gets worse grades than me,” Yata said. He paused for a moment. “Say, Saruhiko…why _don’t_ you do any better on tests?”

“What sort of question is that?” Fushimi reached for Yata’s milk, upsetting two worksheets. 

“I mean…you’re like a genius, right? You can answer stuff like this without even trying. You should have the best grades in the class!”

Fushimi shrugged, looking down idly at the papers fluttering in the wind. 

“It’s all boring,” he said at last.

“Boring?”

“It’s not even worth lifting the pencil,” Fushimi said honestly. He wasn’t sure why he even said it, because it wasn’t any of Yata’s business. He’d just gotten used to answering Misaki’s questions by now. “Everything is too easy, and so it’s boring. It’s such a bother, I’d rather not do it at all. People always think that because I can find the answer that must mean I like things like this, tests and schoolwork. But in the end, it doesn’t catch my interest at all. There’s nothing satisfying in getting perfect scores or showing off, so why even waste my time on it?”

“…Right.” Yata actually looked somewhat thoughtful at that. “I sorta…I kinda know what you mean. About feeling…unsatisfied, I guess.” He paused. “But still, you’re showing me what to do and everything. Isn’t that boring too?”

“That’s different.” It was never boring, helping Misaki. It made the homework and tests seem almost worth it, when they got to sit here on the roof like this. Fushimi almost wanted to tell him that, but his voice wouldn’t come and so he just continued to stare down at the blank papers in front of him.

“It is?” Misaki looked oddly pleased at that.

“Tch.” Fushimi made an irritated noise. Only an idiot would be so easily mollified by that simple an answer. 

“All right!” Yata’s energy seemed to have returned full force as he rolled up his sleeves and scrambled for a pencil. “Explain it to me one more time.”

Fushimi glared at him but reached for the papers anyway. 

—

Misaki wasn’t in class today and the day had never been longer.

Fushimi felt as if he’d been sitting there at the desk for years, growing older and more withered with every second. The voices of the teachers and his fellow students were nothing but an annoyance, hollow echoes in his ears that wouldn’t go away. He sat in the corner of the cafeteria at lunch and tried to read a book, but the words danced away from his eyes and he couldn’t concentrate.

_I should have skipped too._ It had been a long time since he’d done that. Ever since he’d started eating with Misaki every day and hanging out with him after school and waiting for him every morning, school had begun to seem ever so slightly less like an annoyance. Without Misaki, everything felt the way it had before, when he’d had just himself and the corners of his mind for company.

He scribbled lines idly on his worksheet and leaned his head on his palm, eyes staring dully out the window. There was no help for it on a day like today. The world was gray and empty, and he didn’t even want to think about why.

Fushimi Saruhiko was a person other people didn’t like and that had always been fine with him. Loneliness was just another of the bothersome things he endured, no different than school or vegetables. But somehow the world seemed different now and he wasn’t completely sure if he liked it. The days before he’d met Misaki had always been gray but it had at least been a familiar color. He’d almost gotten used to it. He’d almost made it to a place where he could be satisfied with always being unsatisfied, where he could tell himself that just breathing was enough. 

Fushimi stared out the window and thought that, perhaps, if this was actually the way the world looked without Misaki in it then maybe he didn’t really like it much after all. If this was the way the world without Misaki was going to look, then he’d be happy enough to let it break and bleed into nothing.

\--

Misaki was late. Fushimi chewed on his lip and shifted irritably in the doorway to the school. Usually Misaki was there early and they could walk to class together, but today he was late. Fushimi wondered if Yata was going to be off again today and the thought made his skin itch.

If Misaki was sick, Fushimi would need to go look in on him this time. That was a thing friends did, wasn’t it? And besides, Misaki was such an idiot he’d probably managed to defy all common sense and idiomatic sayings and had probably gotten all the colds in the world and was trying to treat them by doing stupid things like taking cold baths and sleeping with wet socks. Someone needed to keep an eye on him and inform him of what a nuisance he was being by not coming to school.

Something in the back of Fushimi’s mind suggested that perhaps this line of thinking was not quite healthy, but by then he was already walking towards Misaki’s apartment. Yata had never told Fushimi exactly where he lived, of course, but Fushimi had long ago figured it out. He’d followed Misaki part of the way once, and then there’d been the time Misaki had run into him standing in front of the flower shop with his hair and clothes all wet but not in the least out of breath, meaning he couldn’t have walked far. It was an easy thing to triangulate a possible location for Misaki’s apartment based on the available information (sometimes he hated the analytical part of his mind, which never stopped thinking and couldn’t be made interested in anything, but there were times it came in handy not being able to ever completely turn it off).

“Good to see you again, man!” The sound of Misaki’s voice made Fushimi’s feet stop.

Misaki was standing a few feet away, waving to another boy who looked to be at least a year or so older than them. His voice when he spoke was easy and familiar, and the other boy waved back with the same casual air, like two people who knew each other and were happy to meet.

Something in Fushimi’s chest felt tight and his vision blurred for a moment.

Certainly it was all right for Misaki to have other friends. Most people had lots of friends, after all.

Fushimi had only one friend. 

Yata turned around and started in surprise upon seeing Fushimi standing there.

“Who was that, Misaki?” Fushimi heard the edge in his own voice and ignored it.

“Huh? Oh, Kamamoto.” Misaki shrugged, as if it had been nothing. Because it was nothing, of course. It was something normal, nothing to be worried about. The weight in Fushimi’s chest wouldn’t go away. “I used to hang out with him all the time in elementary school, he’s a year ahead of us. There were some jerks who were always picking on him until I taught them a lesson.”

“You’re going to be late for school.” Fushimi grabbed at Misaki’s arm, dragging him forward. “Come on.”

“Why are you in such a bad mood?” Misaki asked, pulling his arm away, and Fushimi felt a sudden rush of annoyance towards everything and nothing.

“This is my usual mood, _Misaki._ ” Fushimi stretched the name out in just the way he liked best.

“You know, Kamamoto always called me ‘Yata- _san_ ,” Yata said. Fushimi didn’t even look at him. “I keep telling you to stop using that name.”

“I like the sound of it.” He wasn’t even sure he’d said it out loud. Fushimi bit his lip and made a small sound of annoyance, trying to walk faster as if he could pull Misaki away from everything and everyone who wasn’t himself.

“Huh? What’d you say?”

_I said I like the way your name sounds when I say it. I like that only I can say it, and no one else._

“I said, you’re an idiot and need to walk faster.”

—

“Let me go, Saru! That guy needs to learn a lesson!”

“Don’t be such a hot-headed moron, Misaki.” Fushimi held tightly to the back of Yata’s shirt collar. 

“Didn’t you hear what he _said_?” Misaki demanded. His hands were balled into fists and he kept trying to pull away. 

“Tch.” Fushimi rolled his eyes. How this idiot had ever survived this many years of school without someone to grab him by the collar and stop him from getting into stupid fights, Fushimi didn’t know.

“You can’t just let guys get away with saying crap like that about you!”

“It doesn’t matter,” Fushimi said, yanking Misaki back a couple more steps. 

“Yes it does,” Yata insisted. “Damn it, Saruhiko! Lemme go! Are you going to drag me all the way back to class or something?”

“If I have to,” Fushimi replied calmly, continuing to pull him down the hall. “Don’t you ever get tired of being an idiot?”

“I’m not being an idiot,” Yata said sulkily. He gave an irritated growl. “Oh, all right! I’ll leave him alone. For now. So let me go.”

Fushimi raised an eyebrow but let go of Yata’s shirt collar anyway. 

“I don’t get why you just let guys say stuff like that about you,” Yata grumbled as he stomped angrily towards the classroom. “Doesn’t it ever just piss you off, Saruhiko?”

“Not really. Just ignore it, _Misaki._ ” 

“I can’t.” Yata paused and turned to face him. _“Someone’s_ gotta stand up for you, right?”

Fushimi’s eyes widened slightly. He was always aware of what people said about him. Unkind things, hurtful things, often said straight to his face, sometimes accompanied by shoves and kicks and the usual things children did to those who were outcasts. It was one of the things that he’d long ago accepted as part of the world that had no more use for him than he had for it.

Misaki shifted nervously, looking a bit embarrassed at his own outburst, and Fushimi couldn’t help the small smile that wound its way across his face.

“You really are an idiot,” he said at last. Yata smiled back at him anyway and they walked into the classroom together.

—

“S-S-Saruhiko…” Misaki’s face was ashen as he walked over to Fushimi’s desk, holding a pink envelope between two fingers as if he thought it might explode at any time. 

“Misaki?” Fushimi raised an eyebrow at him and Misaki gingerly laid the envelope on his desk.

“It—it’s--” Misaki stuttered nervously and Fushimi gave an extravagant sigh as he picked up the envelope and opened it.

“It’s a letter,” Fushimi said flatly.

“From a _girl_ ,” Misaki said, as if this was somehow impressive. “A _girl_ , Saru! A girl wrote me a letter.”

“Yes, I can see that.” Something twitched in Fushimi’s mind and he tried to ignore the feeling, tearing idly at the corners of the letter. It had apparently been coated in some kind of perfume and the smell was making him feel sick.

“S-so…what should I _do?_ ” Misaki’s face had gone from deathly pale to bright red.

“What kind of question is that?” 

“It’s a love letter!” Misaki said, and Fushimi could have sworn that his voice had gone up a couple octaves. “A-a _confession!_ I got a confession letter, Saruhiko!” 

“So?” Fushimi shrugged. “Don’t be such a virgin.”

“Who are you calling a virgin?” Misaki snapped. “I-I’ll have you know that I’ve talked to _tons_ of girls before. Hundreds. Thousands of them.”

“Name one.”

“I-I’m not going to betray their trust by saying,” Misaki said. Fushimi slid the letter back over to him and he yelped and fell back as if burned.

“Thousands of girls, huh?”

“Who are you to talk anyway?” Misaki muttered. “How many girls have you talked to before?”

“Probably more than you.” Which was technically a lie because Fushimi didn’t talk much to _anyone_ who wasn’t Misaki, girls or no, but Fushimi wasn’t going to tell him that.

“Anyway, never mind that.” Misaki tried to regain his composure, which was a losing battle if Fushimi ever saw one. “Saruhiko…what do I _do?”_

“You send a reply, idiot,” Fushimi said, disgusted. 

“A reply, right…” Misaki stared at the letter and bit his lip. “Hey. Saruhiko. Could you…write one for me?”

“What?”

“A reply,” Misaki said. “I’m not good at this kind of stuff. You could write something good for me, couldn’t you? I mean, you’re all smart and stuff. You could probably write something good.”

“I’m not your secretary,” Fushimi said darkly. Misaki gave him a pitiful look and Fushimi gave a sigh of long suffering. “Really, you’re such a _virgin._ ”

“But you’ll do it, right?” Misaki prompted.

Fushimi rolled his eyes but nodded anyway.

“All right! You’re the best, Saruhiko.” Misaki clapped him on the back and hurried back to his seat as the teacher walked into the room. 

“Tch.” Fushimi unfolded the letter and let his eyes wander idly over it. He didn’t see why his classmates got so flustered over stupid things like love letters and confessions. They were all pointless things, anyway. They were middle schoolers, it wasn’t like any of them were ever going to see much of each other again after graduation (though it was different with him and Misaki, of course, but that went without saying). Doing things like making lunches for each other or going on dates seemed like such a boring waste of time.

And if this girl liked Misaki she’d want to do that sort of thing with him, too. The type of girl who would like Misaki, Fushimi couldn’t even think of what sort of person she would have to be. Misaki was completely unsuited for spending time with girls, he’d probably make a fool of himself right away. It was best to spare him that kind of humiliation, certainly. As Misaki’s best friend, Fushimi couldn’t let him spend time with someone who had to be completely wrong for him.

If this girl liked Misaki she would want to spend time with him, and only him. She would want him to look only at her, all the time. 

Something dark and heavy settled in his chest and with a scowl Fushimi crumpled the letter up into a ball. Then he pulled out a piece of paper and began to write.

Two days later at lunch Misaki slammed his tray down on the table, leveling Fushimi with an accusing stare.

“Hey. Saru.”

“Hmm?” Fushimi barely looked up.

“You didn’t write anything weird, did you?”

“What?” That was right, the reply letter. Fushimi shrugged. “Only what I thought would be the best answer. Why?”

“Because all the girls keep acting weird around me,” Misaki said, looking uncomfortable. “It’s like they don’t want to talk to me or even look at me or anything. Like—like there’s something _wrong_ with me.”

“Probably because they can tell you’re a virgin who can’t talk to girls,” Fushimi said, reaching for Misaki’s milk carton.

“I’m fine talking to girls!” Misaki said.

“So go talk to one. Right now.”

“I-I don’t want to bother anyone.” Misaki snorted and started digging into his lunch with somewhat more vigor than usual. “Anyway, I don’t _need_ to talk to girls. They only want to talk about stupid lovey-dovey crap anyway. We don’t need that kinda stuff, right? You and me are fine by ourselves.”

Fushimi nodded and took a long drink of milk in order to hide his smile.

\-- 

They ran through the streets, Misaki holding tight to his hand, and Fushimi’s lungs burned. Behind them he could hear the high schoolers who had been attacking Yata yelling something but for the moment no one seemed to be following them. Even so, they kept running.

The knives were still clutched tightly in Fushimi’s hand, and he didn’t let go of those either.

Finally Misaki seemed to have decided that they had run far enough and he stopped, letting go of Fushimi’s wrist as he wearily dropped his hands onto his knees. Fushimi was out of breath and his throat hurt, but he didn’t really think much about that. His eyes were focused solely on Misaki and on the bruises all over his face. The knives felt cold in his hand.

Someone had hurt Misaki. He knew that this wasn’t a new thing — the idiot got into fights all the time unless Fushimi managed to stop him — but this was different. There had been three of them and they’d had him cornered. When he’d seen them Fushimi had felt something like a fire boiling in his heart and he hadn’t been able to stop himself from intervening. When he’d stabbed the one boy, he hadn’t even been thinking about himself. He’d only been thinking about Misaki, held in the grip of the other two and yelling his name.

Misaki was saying something now, and it took Fushimi a moment to register it.

“You okay, Saruhiko?”

“You should be worried about yourself. You hot-headed idiot.” Fushimi suddenly felt annoyed with everything, with Yata and with the people who’d attacked them and even with himself, and before he’d even thought about it he found himself pressing Misaki close against a nearby wall, checking him over for injuries. 

Anything could have happened, if Fushimi hadn’t been there. He could’ve been hurt worse, could’ve been killed. The thought was like a black hole in Fushimi’s chest. 

“Me?” Yata swatted his hand away irritably. “You’re the one who challenged them! I would’ve been fine!”

“They had you cornered in an alley,” Fushimi shot back. Anything could have happened. If he hadn’t been there, anything could have happened. His mouth felt dry and it hurt to breathe, and Fushimi thought dimly that he hadn’t felt this angry in a long, long time. 

“I could’ve taken them,” Yata stated, and Fushimi rolled his eyes. 

“And you were doing such a good job when I showed up. You’re covered in bruises.”

“I was just waiting for the right time to counterattack,” Yata said. Fushimi was about to reply when Misaki’s hands on his throat made him freeze. “Aw, dammit, Saruhiko, what were you thinking? He almost…damn it, Saruhiko… _you_ almost…”

Misaki’s fist was pressed against his chest and for a moment Fushimi felt like he was drowning. His tongue felt thick like tissues in his mouth and his heart was beating so fast he thought for certain Misaki must be able to feel it through his chest.

Misaki’s face was pale and Fushimi wasn’t even sure if he knew why. No one had ever acted like this towards him. No one had ever cared like this for him.

“It’s fine.” He barely managed to get the words out as he rested a hand awkwardly over Misaki’s fist. “It’s all right, Misaki. I’m fine.”

“Yeah, but…” Misaki looked down then and finally seemed to notice the knives Fushimi was still clutching tightly. “And since when the hell do you carry _knives_?”

“Since always.” 

“You never told me. How come you didn’t tell me you had knives?”

“You never asked.” Fushimi shrugged and returned the knives to their usual hiding spot in his sleeves, since they seemed to be upsetting Misaki so much.

“Yeah, but… _why_ do you walk around with hidden knives?” Yata was staring at him and Fushimi didn’t quite know what to say.

_—too many nights walking home alone in the dark and the cold, and people calling from the shadows, ‘come closer, we won’t hurt you, pretty little thing’ and ‘what are you doing all alone, little boy?’ and knowing, knowing with every fiber of his being that if he followed he’d never be seen again and no one would care no one would notice he just wouldn’t be there anymore and it would never register to anyone that he’d ever been in the first place—_

_—because those who are alone are weak and the weak are weeded out as children, are ripped apart and swallowed up and the thought made his heart seize and his skin itch and he couldn’t take that thought, couldn’t be one of the weak ones who got eaten by the world, so he needed claws and teeth to fight back against it—_

“Protection,” Fushimi said, because he couldn’t say anything more. Misaki was staring at him with that ridiculous open face again, the expression too easy to read, looking as if he might cry any moment and it made no sense at all. Fushimi had never found anything in his life that made less sense than Yata Misaki and that was why Misaki was the most precious. “Misaki…?” 

“Nothing.” Misaki shook his head but his expression didn’t clear. They took quick stock of their location and then Fushimi let him lead the way to the nearest pharmacy for some bandages.

The knives up his sleeves felt cold against his skin but Misaki’s hand on his wrist was warm, and that was enough.

—

Some nights they shared a blanket.

Yata had been living with him for nearly two weeks now and somehow the cramped apartment felt larger with two people there. The garbage was still piling up, but Fushimi supposed one of them would get around to taking it out eventually and besides it was _their_ garbage, not his alone, which made all the difference in the world as far as Fushimi was concerned.

Sleeping arrangements had been a bit of an issue. Fushimi had always been fine sleeping on the floor in the corner with his two blankets and his lumpy pillow and at first Misaki seemed to regard the whole thing as an interesting new adventure in living quarters. He’d brought his own pillow but no blankets, so Fushimi had given up one of his. They’d scraped together enough money to buy an extra, but the problem was who got the third blanket on any given night.

Misaki’s original insistence was that, being as it was Fushimi’s place and technically Fushimi’s blanket, Fushimi should therefore use the third blanket. But as the nights grew colder it was harder and harder to stay warm with only one blanket and Fushimi could only take so many nights of seeing Misaki shiver while he slept. So then Fushimi had simply given Misaki the blanket without so much as another word, an arrangement that had lasted until the first time Misaki awoke in the middle of the night and spotted _Fushimi_ shivering while he slept. At that point Misaki had stubbornly refused to use the extra blanket himself unless Fushimi used it too.

Which left only one logical answer, which was sharing.

“You keep stealing the blankets,” Yata muttered.

“ _You_ keep kicking me,” Fushimi replied calmly. They were lying back to back with only a few inches of space between them and Fushimi thought for the first time that the room felt too close.

“Your feet are cold.” Misaki tugged the blanket closer to his side.

“Because it’s cold out,” Fushimi shot back, pulling his side of the blanket just to be contrary. He was actually feeling rather hot, but somehow letting Misaki take the blanket felt too much like losing to tolerate.

“This is weird,” Misaki grumbled after the silence between them had stretched on too long.

“What’s weird?”

“Sleeping this close.”

“How is that weird?” Fushimi felt Misaki tug on the blanket again and he pulled it back towards himself with an irritated ‘tch.’ He didn’t even want it anymore, he was just getting annoyed at Misaki’s usual stupid brainless stubbornness.

“Guys shouldn’t sleep close like this.” The words were said in almost a mumble and Fushimi rolled over to stare at Yata’s back.

“You can leave if you want.” He said it with no emotion whatsoever. It was no business of Fushimi’s where Misaki chose to sleep, after all.

_Don’t leave._

“I didn’t say that!” Misaki rolled over suddenly and then they were face to face. Fushimi’s face felt hot and he was glad Yata couldn’t see him well in the darkness. “I just said…it’s weird. That’s all.”

“Stop complaining.” Fushimi felt exasperated by something he couldn’t name and he abruptly moved away, letting Yata take the last of the blanket. “Here, just take it. You need it more than me anyway, since you’re so much smaller.”

“What did you say, asshole?!” Misaki snapped. Fushimi suddenly felt the blanket draped over his head as Yata slid over so that they were nearly touching.

“What now?” Fushimi didn’t trust himself enough to move and face him.

“You have to take the blanket too,” Misaki said in an annoyed voice. 

“I’m fine.”

“You’re already shaking.”

Fushimi was, and he wasn’t certain that it was really from cold.

“I’m fine,” he said again because he didn’t dare say anything more. He could feel Yata’s breath hesitant against his back. “I thought it was weird like this?”

“It is,” Misaki mumbled drowsily, already falling back asleep. “But it’s warm.”

Silence fell over them then as Yata slowly dropped back to sleep. Fushimi stayed awake, the blanket heavy over his shoulders and Misaki pressed close against his back, and listened to Misaki sleep.

— 

They were sitting facing each other in front of the television with two opened packages of take-out between them when the power went out.

“What the hell?” Yata cursed as a bolt of lightning briefly lit the room. “What happened?”

“What do you think?” Fushimi said irritably. He had accidentally eaten one of the bamboo shoots out of the sweet and sour pork and was feeling more annoyed at the world than usual. “The power’s gone out. It happens a lot here during rainstorms.”

“It’s barely raining,” Yata insisted, walking over to the boarded window to look out even as another rumble of thunder sounded in the distance. Fushimi shrugged.

“Faulty wiring,” he said calmly. “It’s an old building.”

“Hmmph. That’s stupid,” Yata declared, crossing his arms as if the lack of power was a personal affront. “You should tell the owner of this dump to fix it up.”

“He doesn’t know I live here, idiot,” Fushimi reminded him, fixing Misaki with a cold glare that he supposed the other boy could barely see in the darkened room.

“Oh. Right.” Yata laughed nervously and sat back down on the floor, staring disconsolately at the remains of their dinner. His portion of the meal had suddenly gained twice as many bamboo shoots and lost about half the meat. “So now what? Do you have flashlights or anything?”

“I did. I’m not sure what happened to them.”

“They probably got lost because you’re a slob, Saru,” Yata muttered under his breath, picking at his food. When Fushimi didn’t reply, he groaned and flopped over onto his back. “So now what?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean, what do you _do_ when the power goes out?”

“Do?” The thought hadn’t even occurred to Fushimi and he wondered not for the first time how Misaki’s tiny brain worked. “Usually I just go to bed early and it’s back by the time I wake up.”

“That’s boring,” Misaki sighed.

“I know.” Fushimi shrugged. “What else is there to do?”

They ate in silence for a few more moments before Misaki spoke up again.

“Saruhiko…you said this happens a lot, right?”

“Right.”

“So, before I moved in…what did you _do?_ ”

“Tch. I told you, I went to sleep,” Fushimi repeated, annoyed.

“Well, wasn’t it…y’know…creepy?”

“Don’t be a moron.”

“I mean it.” Yata sat back up suddenly. “The power went out one time when I was home by myself in the middle of the night and I started to hear stuff and I couldn’t even get back to sleep!”

“Is your brain as underdeveloped as your height?” Fushimi asked. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. It’s just darkness, that’s all.”

“I-I’m not afraid!” Misaki snapped quickly. “I was just…wondering, that’s all. There could’ve been robbers or-or something like that. That’s all.”

“So you’re afraid of the dark?” Fushimi laughed.

“I am not!” Misaki insisted. “I was just making sure you weren’t, that’s all.”

“I’m used to it,” Fushimi said without looking at him. “It wasn’t not much different whether the power’s on or off. It was just quiet and dark, that’s all. I was fine by myself. I wasn’t afraid.” _The night wasn’t any longer. The world wasn’t any hollower._ “I wasn’t…I was fine.”

“Saruhiko…” Misaki was looking at him, Fushimi was sure of that, and he stared down fixedly at the floor. The food suddenly tasted dry in his mouth and he stood.

“I’m going to look for a flashlight.”

“Saruhiko--” Misaki grabbed his wrist and he stopped. 

“I’m fine,” Fushimi repeated. “Don’t worry, _Misaki._ I’ll protect you so you don’t have to be scared.” 

“Who are you calling ‘scared,’ you bastard?!”

—

“Are you going to the graduation ceremony?” 

They were lying back to back on the roof of the school again, staring out at the afternoon sky. 

“Everyone’s expected to go.” Fushimi shrugged in response to Misaki’s question.

“I don’t want to go,” Misaki muttered sulkily. “It’s just a stupid piece of paper. It’s not like it means anything.” He paused. “Saruhiko…what are we going to do after graduation?”

“Sleep in,” Fushimi said, unruffled. He didn’t really care what happened after they left school. The teachers were all being so annoying now, lecturing about careers and futures. Fushimi didn’t need any of that. As long as he was with Misaki, things like high school and jobs weren’t worth his time to think about.

“I’m not going to high school,” Yata announced.

“I already knew that,” Fushimi said, his voice sounding less annoyed than he’d intended.

“We need to think of something to do,” Misaki said. He sounded uncharacteristically thoughtful. “Saruhiko…what are we gonna do? We’re just kids. We can’t just keep going like this forever. What if the landlord at your place finds out we’re living there and we get kicked out, or the place gets condemned or something? What if we can’t find any place to work or afford food or--”

“We’ll manage.” Fushimi shrugged again. He wasn’t really thinking about any of those things, either. Misaki’s back felt warm against his and it made him feel drowsy and almost content.

“I hate this place.” Misaki’s voice was low and filled with frustration. “I want to get out of here.”

“Then we’ll leave. No one will care if we skip the rest of the day.” 

“I don’t mean the school,” Misaki said. “I mean, _kinda,_ but not right this minute. I just hate…all of this. Being on the streets, never knowing what’s going to happen to us. I want…I want to get out of here. It’s like, if this were a manga, this would be when a hero would swoop in and save us, you know?”

Fushimi thought about that for a moment and his face clouded. He wanted to tell Misaki that he didn’t need any of that. He’d already learned long ago that heroes didn’t exist. But Misaki, _Misaki_ existed, and that was enough. The two of them were together. That was all Fushimi needed. There was no need for heroes as far as Fushimi was concerned, as long as he had Misaki beside him.

“Tch,” was all he said instead, because Fushimi could never trust himself to say anything else.

—

Suoh Mikoto extended his flame-covered hand and somewhere, Fushimi thought he heard something break.

He didn’t like this place or these people. He hadn’t wanted to follow them at all in the first place — Fushimi knew too well, the type of people who would stop on the street and try to get him to follow them. That was why he had his knives in the first place, after all. But Misaki’s head had been full of stars after the man who was called the Red King had displayed his power to them, and as they’d walked Yata had recognized one of his old friends amongst the king’s followers. So he’d insisted they go where the Red King led and where Misaki went, Fushimi went.

They’d been taken to a bar and brought upstairs and told briefly of things that made Fushimi’s head swim, about kings and powers and clansmen. He didn’t like any of it. He wanted to take Misaki by the collar and drag him away, but Misaki was excited and had already pulled away from him.

Misaki had taken the king’s challenge easily, so easily. He’d taken Mikoto’s hand without a hint of hesitation.

Fushimi stared at the flames and tried not to show any reaction. His skin was tingling with an unpleasant feeling and his head was pounding so hard it was difficult to think. His gaze wavered from the king’s hand to where Misaki stood a few feet away, talking animatedly to several of the other red clansmen, staring at the hand that had touched Mikoto’s with the sort of reverence most people normally reserved for sports stars and idol singers.

The entire time they’d walked to the bar, Fushimi had been a few steps behind Misaki. And the whole way there Misaki had turned around again and again to be sure that Fushimi was still there, to yell at him to keep up or urge him on or tell him excitedly how great the whole thing was going to be. Even though he’d looked forward towards Mikoto constantly, he had never stopped looking back, to look at Fushimi and smile at him and be sure that he was still there.

Misaki had passed the Red King’s test and now he hadn’t even looked back once to be sure that Fushimi had done the same. Something deep inside Fushimi cut so painfully he thought for sure it must have drawn blood. Fushimi clenched his fist and steeled his will.

He reached for the Red King’s hand and as the flames touched his skin Fushimi was certain he heard something break.


	3. Schism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You betrayed me first // I was all alone in a dark, dark room, and then you were there.

There was blood dripping down Yata’s cheek and he kicked angrily at the nearest rock.

“Yata-san, let’s go back to the bar.” Kamamoto was following along behind him, trying to calm him down, but Yata barely paid any attention to him. The cut on his cheek stung.

He had seen Saruhiko today for the first time in _that_ uniform. He’d just been walking around town with Kamamoto, doing nothing in particular, and then they’d come upon a Scepter 4 roadblock — who knew what the damn Blues were doing in the middle of the road but there was no way through it. They’d decided to make a wide detour around the blockade and that’s when Yata had nearly run straight into Saruhiko.

He didn’t look right in the blue uniform. It didn’t suit him at all. And his hair was all messed up, even more than usual. Yata hadn’t even realized who it was at first, until he’d passed by and heard a voice behind him.

“Well, well. What are you doing here, _Misaki?”_

It had been Saruhiko’s voice, and not Saruhiko’s voice. There had been — something — in it, something Yata couldn’t think to place—

_(No sanity in that laugh, but that wasn’t Saruhiko, couldn’t be Saruhiko.)_

He had looked up to see the person who had once been his best friend in the whole world standing there in front of him, one hand resting casually over the sword at his waist. Saruhiko had been _smiling,_ smiling in a way that had chilled Yata to the bone.

He’d felt angry then. More than angry, totally and utterly pissed off. The bastard had _betrayed_ them. He’d left them _(left me)_ and now here he was draped in the colors of a rival clan. There was no way Yata could just pass him by, not after that.

Words had been exchanged. Saruhiko had parried every accusation Yata made, laughing and smiling and calling him by his first name again and again until it was clear the bastard just wanted a fight. And there was no way Yata was backing down from something like that, that was for damn sure. He wasn’t afraid of _Saruhiko_ , of all people. He had even been looking forward to the fight in a strange way. As if a small part of him was hoping desperately that if he could only defeat Saruhiko in a fight, then maybe Saruhiko would realize that he was wrong, that he’d gotten weaker rather than stronger by joining Scepter 4. Then Saruhiko would have to come back to Homra.

_(Would have to come back to_ him, _because they were supposed to always be together.)_

It hadn’t worked. He hadn’t been able to beat Saruhiko, had barely gotten a punch in before a commanding female voice had called out Saruhiko’s name from somewhere nearby and with visible reluctance Saruhiko had made that ‘tch’ noise he always made when something irritated him and the sword had gone back into its sheath. Yata would have been more than happy to egg him back into the fight, but Kamamoto kept pulling him by the arm and trying to tell him that they really shouldn’t be here, they were surrounded by Blues, it wasn’t worth it just to kick this traitor’s ass, and think of the trouble it would cause for Mikoto if they ended up arrested or something.

_That_ had finally been enough to break Yata from the haze of anger he was in and he’d spat in Saruhiko’s general direction and stalked away. Saruhiko had muttered something under his breath about Mikoto that Yata supposed it was just as well he didn’t hear, because then he really would have had no choice but to kick the bastard’s ass, Blues or no Blues. He didn’t even understand how Saruhiko could say those things about the man who had once been his king, the man who had rescued them both from the streets and given them a place to belong. Didn’t understand how Saruhiko could betray them all so easily and bend himself to the will of another king for no other reason than power. As if nothing else meant anything, not loyalty to a king or to a friend.

Yata kicked viciously at another rock. It pissed him off, all of it. They had been _saved._ Everything had gone the way he had always dreamed of it. A real life hero had come out of nowhere and taken them along to a place where there was always warmth and laughter and _family_ and something to be proud of. It was everything Yata had ever wanted. Homra was the best thing that had ever happened to him.

_(Homra, and Saruhiko.)_

They had been _together._ He didn’t understand. Hadn’t Saruhiko wanted it too? When Yata had taken his wrist, Saruhiko had come along. He hadn’t pulled away. So why hadn’t Saruhiko been saved too? Yata had always wanted a hero. He had never wanted to give up his best friend in order to find one. 

And after everything, Saruhiko had broken it. Yata’s fists clenched so hard he could feel his nails digging into his palms. Everything they’d shared, every bond they’d forged — Saruhiko had burned them all away as easily as he’d burned the tattoo off his chest. Yata hated him for it, hated the Saruhiko that dressed in the Scepter 4 uniform and laughed with the voice that wasn’t his. Yata had to keep telling himself that, that it was the Scepter 4 Saruhiko that he hated, because the Saruhiko he had known wasn’t there anymore.

Saruhiko had been dressed in blue and his eyes had been wild. That wasn’t his Saruhiko. 

Because if it was then Yata hadn’t known Saruhiko as well as he’d thought, and _that_ stung more than the cut. 

Yata would never forgive him.

_(You betrayed me first.)_

\--

Fushimi stumbled into his room like a person walking in a dream.

The dorms of Scepter 4 were never much to look at, but Fushimi suspected his room was more drab than most. There were no posters on the walls, no photos decorating the desk, not even so much a single small memento or precious item displayed proudly for all to see. Fushimi’s room was stark and empty, with only the rumpled sheets on the bed to serve as proof that anyone lived there at all.

Fushimi walked stiffly past the bed and collapsed in the corner, pulling his knees up close to his chest and lowering his head as one hand scratched distractedly at the burn mark on his chest. It had been two months since he’d destroyed Homra’s mark himself and still the wound was raw and sore.

He’d seen Misaki today.

They’d been sent on a routine call, something boring about a wayward Strain causing damage somewhere downtown. It hadn’t even been that difficult of a task. He’d been sent out to head the operation and had remained back while he sent the others out to round up the Strain causing trouble, and then they’d all prepared to make their way back to Scepter 4 headquarters. He had been returning to the car when he’d happened to look down beyond an overhanging rail to see the figures passing below.

Four Homra members, out doing who knew what. The Red King himself had been there, slouching and smoking and looking mildly annoyed even as he purposefully slowed his pace to allow Anna to keep step beside him. Totsuka had been just behind them, smiling in that calm, laid-back way of his. And Misaki had been on the other side, riding on his skateboard, smiling and laughing and talking excitedly with Mikoto. None of them had even so much as looked up to see him standing there.

Misaki had been there, smiling and laughing.

Fushimi felt something tear itself out of his throat, something that might have started as a sob and ended in a laugh as he clawed absently at his own skin. Two months. It had only been two months, and Misaki was smiling and laughing.

_(I was all alone in a dark, dark room, and then you were there.)_

Fushimi hated it. He hated all of it. Kings and clansmen and the entire world. It could all break into pieces for all he cared. It could be drowned in blood and he would laugh over it as it went. There was nothing else for him in this world now.

People didn’t like Fushimi Saruhiko. He knew that. He had always known it. Once, he hadn’t cared. In many ways, he still didn’t. He didn’t care if his subordinates didn’t like him, didn’t care if Lieutenant Awashima didn’t like him, cared less than nothing if the even the Blue King didn’t like him. No one needed to like him. No one needed to do anything for him or be anyone to him.

Only Misaki. All he had ever needed was Misaki.

Fushimi could feel the blood seeping under his fingernails. Awashima had scolded him the other day, when she’d caught him scratching it. The wound would never heal that way, she’d told him severely. He had only laughed at her. The wound was not supposed to heal. He never intended to let it heal.

Fushimi’s entire body was a wide festering wound that burned and twisted inside him, and that would never heal. 

And Misaki had been laughing.

It wasn’t fair. He’d always known it, but it wasn’t fair. He had nothing without Misaki, had never had anything besides Misaki. But in the end, Misaki had everything. A hero. A ridiculous little play family that pretended to love him, until the day they stopped. Fushimi knew all about these things and he had never been willing to play along. He was never meant to be a part of that place. Homra would have rejected him eventually, unless he rejected them first. It was better if he and Misaki left before that happened. He’d wanted to say it, to tell Misaki that he was leaving and ask Misaki to come with him.

He was laughing uncontrollably now and couldn’t stop. Fushimi had never asked Misaki to choose himself or Homra, because he’d always been afraid of the answer.

_(You were everything to me. I had nothing else precious but Misaki.)_

Misaki didn’t need him. That was the sharpest pain of all, the deep unending _fear,_ that while Misaki had been everything, Misaki had been his only thing, that feeling had not been returned. Maybe it never could have been. Maybe all along Misaki had only stayed because Fushimi was the best he could find, and once something better came along he let go of Fushimi’s hand and reached for that brighter warmth instead.

_(There was rent, until there wasn’t and nobody ever remembered the little boy with the thick glasses and creepy stare, who sat on the steps in the darkness and waited for someone to come pick him up, until hours had passed and he finally began to walk away on his own because no one would ever come for him.)_

Fushimi scratched harder at the scar, dug his fingernails in as deep as they would go. He wanted to bleed. He wanted everything to bleed. He wanted to take his knives or his sword and stab something. Maybe Misaki. Maybe himself. Maybe both at once, Misaki with a blue sword buried in his gut and Fushimi with a red knife in his heart. The image gave him a sudden rush of purely unintended pleasure. Yes, that would be nice, wouldn’t it? The two of them, dead, together. 

Or maybe only himself, dead by Misaki’s hand. Then surely Misaki wouldn't be able to smile, wouldn't be able to laugh. Then he would know the feeling of the raw red wound that didn’t heal. Fushimi would be the eternal scar, the infected cut that ached and oozed and _hurt,_ and then Misaki would never forget him. If death was what would make Misaki think of him, Fushimi would welcome death, would hunt it and chase it down like a fox hunts a rabbit.

_(Don’t leave.)_

He couldn’t move. Fushimi’s legs wouldn’t let him stand and he was shaking with laughter as blood flowed down his chest. It was stupid. It was all stupid. Everything had always been this way, and he’d never been smart enough to realize it.

_(Look at me.)_

_(Look only at me.)_

He would re-open that wound as many times as it took. He would make it bleed fresh, no matter how deep he burnt his own scars.

_(Don’t leave me behind. Don’t let go of my hand.)_

_(Please…just look at me.)_


End file.
